Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/forestfoOOwhitrich 


*'  The  man  in  the  woods  matches  himself  against  the  forces  of  nature 


THE  FOREST 

STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE 

AUTHOR    OF 

**THE    BLAZED    TRAIL,"    "  SILENT    PLACES," 

ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  THOMAS  FOGARTY 


Garden  City        New  York 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1911 


4- 


\ 


Copyright,  1904,  by 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  8c  CO. 

PubHshed  October,  1903 


COPTRIGHT,    1903,   BY    ThE    OUTLOOK    CoMPANT 


TO   BILLY 


CONTENTS 


I. 

The  Calling 

rAOK 

L 

II. 

The  Science  of  Going   Light 

9 

III. 

The  Jumping-off  Place 

21 

IV. 

On  Making   Camp          .... 

•       33 

V. 

On  Lying  Awake  at  Night  . 

•       51 

VI. 

The  'Lunge           ..... 

•       59 

VII. 

On  Open-water  Canoe  Traveling 

•       73 

VIII. 

The  Stranded  Strangers        .          .          .          , 

85 

IX. 

On  Flies 

103 

X. 

Cloche         ...... 

119 

XI. 

The  Habitants     ..... 

135 

XII. 

The  River   .          .          .          .          . 

149 

XIII. 

The  Hills 

167 

XIV. 

On  Walking  through  the  Woods 

183 

XV. 

On  Woods  Indians         .          .          .          .          , 

201 

XVI. 

On  Woods  Indians  —  continued 

223 

XVII. 

The  Catching  of  a  Certain  Fish  . 

241 

XVIII. 

Man  who  walks  by  Moonlight     . 

255 

XIX. 

Apologia      ....... 

267 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

<'  The  man  in  the  woods  matches  himself  against  the  forces 

of  nature "  .  .  .  .  .  .  frontispiece 

PAGB 

<  It  rained  twelve  of  the  first  fourteen  days  we  were  out "      .      14 
« This  old  soldier  had  come  in  from  the  Long  Trail  to  bear 

again  the  flag  of  his  country  "         .  .  .  .  28 

<  In  fifteen  minutes  at  most  your  meal  is  ready  **  .  .42 

*  At  such  a  time  you  will  meet  with  adventures'*    .  .  56 

*  We  .  .  .  had  struggled  across  open  spaces  where  each  wave 

was  singly  a  problem,  to  fail  in  whose  solution  meant 
instant  swamping  '*  .  .  .  .  .  .62 

*  The  wind  .   .   .  had  been  succeeded  by  a  heavy  pall  of 

fog-        ........  76 

'You  are  a  judge  of  fiction  ;  take  this"     .  .  .  .98 

*  You  are  forced  to  the  manipulation  of  a  balsam  fan  '  *      .        112 

*  A  la  Claire  Fontaine  crooned  by  a  man  of  impassive  bulk 

and  countenance,  but  with  glowing  eyes  "  .  .130 

'  He  was  a  Patriarch  "       ......        142 

<  Sometimes  I  \ost  my  footing  entirely  and  trailed  out  benind 

like  a  streamer '* 158 

*  Watched  the  long  North  Country  twilight  steal  up  like  a 

gray  cloud  from  the  east  "    .  .  .  .  .178 

'  In  this  lovable  mystery  we  journeyed  all  the  rest  of  that 

morning ".  .  .  .  .  .  .  .192 

<The  Indians  would  rise    to  their   feet    for    a   single   mo- 
ment''       216 

*  Nor  need  you  hope  to  pole  a  canoe  upstream  as  do  these 

people"       ........   230 

*Then  in  the  twiHght  the  battle"        .  ,         .  .250 

«  Tawabinisay  has  a  deJightfiil  grin "        »         •  .  .262 


THE  CALLING 


THE    FOREST 

I 

THE  CALLING 

'*  The  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again.'* 

SOME  time  in  February,  when  the  snow  and 
sleet  have  shut  out  from  the  wearied  mind  even 
the  memory  of  spring,  the  man  of  the  woods  gen- 
erally receives  his  first  inspiration.  He  may  catch 
it  from  some  companion's  chance  remark,  a  glance 
at  the  map,  a  vague  recollection  of  a  dim-past  con- 
versation, or  it  may  flash  on  him  from  the  mere 
pronouncement  of  a  name.  The  first  faint  thrill  of 
discovery  leaves  him  cool,  but  gradually,  with  the 
increasing  enthusiasm  of  cogitation,  the  idea  gains 
body,  until  finally  it  has  grown  to  plan  fit  for  dis- 
cussion. 

Of  these  many  quickening  potencies  of  inspira- 
tion, the  mere  name  of  a  place  seems  to  strike  deep- 
est at  the  heart  of  romance.  Color,  mystery,  the 
vastnesses  of  unexplored  space  are  there,  symbolized 
compactly  for  the  aliment  of  imagination.    It  lures 

3 


;^./'f:  j  .^  ;*;THE  FOREST 

the  fancy  as  a  fly  lures  the  trout.  Mattagami,  Peace 
River,  Kananaw,  the  House  of  the  Touchwood  Hills, 
Rupert's  House,  the  Land  of  Little  Sticks,  Flying 
Post,  Conjuror's  House  —  how  the  syllables  roll  from 
the  tongue,  what  pictures  rise  in  instant  response  to 
their  suggestion  I  The  journey  of  a  thousand  miles 
seems  not  too  great  a  price  to  pay  for  the  sight  of  a 
place  called  the  Hills  of  Silence,  for  acquaintance 
with  the  people  who  dwell  there,  perhaps  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  saga-spirit  that  so  named  its  environ- 
ment. On  the  other  hand,  one  would  feel  but  little 
desire  to  visit  Muggin's  Corners,  even  though  at 
their  crossing  one  were  assured  of  the  deepest  flavor 
of  the  Far  North. 

The  first  response  to  the  red  god's  summons  is 
almost  invariably  the  production  of  a  fly-book  and 
the  complete  rearrangement  of  all  its  contents.  The 
next  is  a  resumption  of  practice  with  the  little  pistol. 
The  third,  and  last,  is  pencil  and  paper,  and  lists  of 
grub  and  duffel,  and  estimates  of  routes  and  expenses, 
and  correspondence  with  men  who  spell  queerly,  bear 
down  heavily  with  blunt  pencils,  and  agree  to  be 
at  Black  Beaver  Portage  on  a  certain  date.  Now, 
though  the  February  snow  and  sleet  still  shut  him 
in,  the  spring  has  drawn  very  near.  He  can  feel  the 
warmth  of  her  breath  rustling  through  his  reviving 
memories. 

There  are  said  to  be  sixty-eight  roads  to  heaven, 
of  which  but  one  is  the  true  way,  although  here 

4 


THE  CALLING 

and  there  a  by-path  offers  experimental  variety  to 
the  restless  and  bold.  The  true  way  for  the  man  in 
the  woods  to  attain  the  elusive  best  of  his  wilder- 
ness experience  is  to  go  as  light  as  possible,  and  the 
by-paths  of  departure  from  that  principle  lead  only 
to  the  slightly  increased  carrying  possibilities  of 
open-water  canoe  trips,  and  permanent  camps. 

But  these  prove  to  be  not  very  independent  side 
paths,  never  diverging  so  far  from  the  main  road 
that  one  may  dare  hope  to  conceal  from  a  vigilant 
eye  that  he  is  not  going  light. 

To  go  light  is  to  play  the  game  fairly.  The  man 
in  the  woods  matches  himself  against  the  forces  of 
nature.  In  the  towns  he  is  warmed  and  fed  and 
clothed  so  spontaneously  and  easily  that  after  a  time 
he  perforce  begins  to  doubt  himself,  to  wonder 
whether  his  powers  are  not  atrophied  from  disuse. 
And  so,  with  his  naked  soul,  he  fronts  the  wilder- 
ness. It  is  a  test,  a  measuring  of  strength,  a  prov- 
ing of  his  essential  pluck  and  resourcefulness  and 
manhood,  an  assurance  of  man's  highest  potency,  the 
ability  to  endure  and  to  take  care  of  himself  In 
just  so  far  as  he  substitutes  the  ready-made  of  civil- 
ization for  the  wit-made  of  the  forest,  the  pneumatic 
bed  for  the  balsam  boughs,  in  just  so  far  is  he  relying 
on  other  men  and  other  men's  labor  to  take  care  of 
him.  To  exactly  that  extent  is  the  test  invalidated. 
He  has  not  proved  a  courteous  antagonist,  for  he 
has  not  stripped  to  the  contest 

5 


THE  FOREST 

To  go  light  is  to  play  the  game  sensibly.  For 
even  when  it  is  not  so  earnest,  nor  the  stake  so  high, 
a  certain  common  sense  should  take  the  place  on  a 
lower  plane  of  the  fair-play  sense  on  the  higher.  A 
great  many  people  find  enjoyment  in  merely  play- 
ing with  nature.  Through  vacation  they  relax  their 
minds,  exercise  mildly  their  bodies,  and  freshen  the 
colors  of  their  outlook  on  life.  Such  people  like  to 
live  comfortably,  work  little,  and  enjoy  existence 
lazily.  Instead  of  modifying  themselves  to  fit  the  life 
of  the  wilderness,  they  modify  their  city  methods 
to  fit  open-air  conditions.  They  do  not  need  to  strip 
to  the  contest,  for  contest  there  is  none,  and  Indian 
packers  are  cheap  at  a  dollar  a  day.  But  even  so  the 
problem  of  the  greatest  comfort  —  defining  comfort 
as  an  accurate  balance  of  effort  expended  to  results 
obtained  —  can  be  solved  only  by  the  one  formula. 
And  that  formula  is,  again,  go  light,  for  a  superabun- 
dance of  paraphernalia  proves  always  more  of  a  care 
than  a  satisfaction.  When  the  woods  offer  you  a 
thing  ready  made,  it  is  the  merest  foolishness  to 
transport  that  same  thing  an  hundred  miles  for  the 
sake  of  the  manufacturer's  trademark. 

I  once  met  an  outfit  in  the  North  Woods,  plodding 
diligently  across  portage,  laden  like  the  camels  of  the 
desert  Three  Indians  swarmed  back  and  forth  a  half 
dozen  trips  apiece.  An  Indian  can  carry  over  two 
hundred  pounds.  That  evening  a  half-breed  and  I 
visited  their  camp  and  examined  their  outfit,  always 

6 


THE  CALLING 

with  growing  wonder.  They  had  tent-poles  and 
about  fifty  pounds  of  hardwood  tent  pegs,  —  in  a 
wooded  country  where  such  things  can  be  had  for 
a  cHp  of  the  axe.  They  had  a  system  of  ringed  iron 
bars  which  could  be  so  fitted  together  as  to  form  a 
low  open  grill  on  which  trout  could  be  broiled, — 
weight  twenty  pounds,  and  split  wood  necessary  for 
its  efficiency.  They  had  air  mattresses  and  camp- 
chairs  and  oil  lanterns.  They  had  corpulent  duffel 
bags  apiece  that  would  stand  alone,  and  enough 
changes  of  clothes  to  last  out  dry-skinned  a  week's 
rain.  And  the  leader  of  the  party  wore  the  wrinkled 
brow  of  tribulation.  For  he  had  to  keep  track  of 
everything  and  see  that  package  number  twenty- 
eight  was  not  left,  and  that  package  number  six- 
teen did  not  get  wet ;  that  the  pneumatic  bed  did 
not  get  punctured,  and  that  the  canned  goods  did. 
Beside  which  the  caravan  was  moving  at  the  majestic 
rate  of  about  five  miles  a  day. 

Now  tent-pegs  can  always  be  cut,  and  trout  broiled 
beautifully  by  a  dozen  other  ways,  and  candle  lanterns 
fold  up,  and  balsam  can  be  laid  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  be  as  springy  as  a  pneumatic  mattress,  and  camp- 
chairs,  if  desired,  can  be  quickly  constructed  with 
an  axe,  and  clothes  can  al^^^ays  be  washed  or  dried 
as  long  as  fire  burns  and  water  runs,  and  any  one  of 
fifty  other  items  of  laborious  burden  could  have  been 
ingeniously  and  quickly  substituted  by  any  one  of 
the  Indians.    It  was  not  that  we  concealed  a  bucolic 


THE  FOREST 

scorn  of  effete  but  solid  comfort ;  only  it  did  seem 
ridiculous  that  a  man  should  cumber  himself  with  a 
fifth  wheel  on  a  smoothly  macadamized  road. 

The  next  morning  Billy  and  I  went  cheerfully 
on  our  way.  We  were  carrying  an  axe,  a  gun, 
blankets,  an  extra  pair  of  drawers  and  socks  apiece, 
a  little  grub,  and  an  eight-pound  shelter  tent.  We 
had  been  out  a  week,  and  we  were  having  a  good 
time. 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  GOING  UGHX  ,  , 


II 

THE  SCIENCE  OF  GOING  LIGHT 

'*  Now  the  Four- Way  lodge  is  opened  —  now  the  smokes  of  Coun« 
oil  rise  — 
Pleasant  smokes  ere  yet  *twixt  trail  and  trail  they  choose.*' 

YOU  can  no  more  be  told  how  to  go  light  than 
you  can  be  told  how  to  hit  a  ball  with  a  bat 
It  is  something  that  must  be  lived  through,  and 
all  advice  on  the  subject  has  just  about  the  value 
of  an  answer  to  a  bashful  young  man  who  begged 
from  one  of  our  woman's  periodicals  help  in  over- 
coming the  diffidence  felt  on  entering  a  crowded 
room.  The  reply  read :  "  Cultivate  an  easy,  grace- 
ful manner."  In  hke  case  I  might  hypothecate, 
"  To  go  light,  discard  all  but  the  really  necessary 
articles." 

The  sticking  point,  were  you  to  press  me  close, 
would  be  the  definition  of  the  word  "  necessary,"  for 
the  terms  of  such  definition  would  have  to  be  those 
solely  and  simply  of  a  man's  experience.  Comforts, 
even  most  desirable  comforts,  are  not  necessities.  A 
dozen  times  a  day  trifling  emergencies  will  seem 
precisely  to  call  for  some  little  handy  contrivance 

II 


THE  FOREST 

that  would  be  just  the  thing,  were  it  in  the  pack 
rather  than  at  home.  A  disgorger  does  the  business 
better  than  a  pocket-knife ;  a  pair  of  oilskin  trousers 
turns  the  wet  better  than  does  kersey ;  a  camp-stove 
will  bum  merrily  in  a  rain  lively  enough  to  drown 
an  open  fire.  Yet  neither  disgorger,  nor  oilskins, 
nor  camp-stove  can  be  considered  in  the  light  of 
necessities,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  conditions 
of  their  use  occur  too  infrequently  to  compensate  for 
the  pains  of  their  carriage.  Or,  to  put  it  the  other 
way,  a  few  moments*  work  with  a  knife,  wet  knees 
occasionally,  or  an  infrequent  soggy  meal  are  not  too 
great  a  price  to  pay  for  unburdened  shoulders. 

Nor  on  the  other  hand  must  you  conclude  that 
because  a  thing  is  a  mere  luxury  in  town,  it  is  no- 
thing but  that  in  the  woods.  Most  woodsmen  own 
some  little  ridiculous  item  of  outfit  without  which 
they  could  not  be  happy.  And  when  a  man  can- 
not be  happy  lacking  a  thing,  that  thing,  becomes 
a  necessity.  I  knew  one  who  never  stirred  without 
borated  talcum  powder ;  another  who  must  have  his 
mouth-organ;  a  third  who  was  miserable  without  a 
small  bottle  of  salad  dressing ;  I  confess  to  a  pair  of 
light  buckskin  gloves.  Each  man  must  decide  for 
himself,  —  remembering  always  the  endurance  limit 
of  human  shoulders. 

A  necessity  is  that  which,  hy  your  own  experience^ 
you  have  found  you  cannot  do  without.  As  a  bit 
of  practical  advice,  however,  the  following  system 

12 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  GOING  LIGHT 

of  elimination  may  be  recommended.  When  you 
return  from  a  trip,  turn  your  duffel  bag  upside  down 
on  the  floor.  Of  the  contents  make  three  piles, — 
three  piles  conscientiously  selected  in  the  light  of 
what  has  happened  rather  than  what  ought  to  have 
happened,  or  what  might  have  happened.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  do  this.  Preconceived  notions,  habits  of  civ- 
ilization, theory  for  future,  imagination,  all  stand  in 
the  eye  of  your  honesty.  Pile  number  one  should 
comprise  those  articles  you  have  used  every  day; 
pile  number  two,  those  you  have  used  occasionally; 
pile  number  three,  those  you  have  not  used  at  all. 
If  you  are  resolute  and  single-minded,  you  will  at 
once  discard  the  latter  two. 

Throughout  the  following  winter  you  will  be  at- 
tacked by  misgivings.  To  be  sure,  you  wore  the 
mosquito  hat  but  once  or  twice,  and  the  fourth  pair 
of  socks  not  at  all ;  but  then  the  mosquitoes  might  be 
thicker^ext  time,  and  a  series  of  rainy  days  and  cold 
nights  might  make  it  desirable  to  have  a  dry  pair  of 
socks  to  put  on  at  night.  The  past  has  been  x,  but 
the  future  might  be  y.  One  by  one  the  discarded 
creep  back  into  the  list.  And  by  the  opening  of 
next  season  you  have  made  toward  perfection  by 
only  the  little  space  of  a  mackintosh  coat  and  a  ten- 
gauge  gun. 

But  in  the  years  to  come  you  learn  better  and 
better  the  simple  woods  lesson  of  substitution  or 
doing  without    You  find  that  discomfort  is  as  soon 

13 


THE  FOREST 

forgotten  as  pain;  that  almost  anything  can  be  en- 
dured if  it  is  but  for  the  time  being ;  that  absolute 
physical  comfort  is  worth  but  a  very  small  price  in 
avoirdupois.   Your  pack  shrinks. 

In  fact,  it  really  never  ceases  shrinking.  Only  last 
summer  taught  me  the  uselessness  of  an  extra  pair 
of  trousers.  It  rains  in  the  woods ;  streams  are  to 
be  waded ;  the  wetness  of  leaves  is  greater  than  the 
wetness  of  many  rivers.  Logically,  naturally,  inevi- 
tably, such  conditions  point  to  change  of  garments 
when  camp  is  made.  We  always  change  our  clothes 
when  we  get  wet  in  the  city.  So  for  years  I  carried 
those  extra  nether  garments, — and  continued  in  the 
natural  exposure  to  sun  and  wind  and  camp-fire  to 
dry  off  before  change  time,  or  to  hang  the  damp 
clothes  from  the  ridge-pole  for  resumption  in  the 
morning.  And  then  one  day  the  web  of  that  par- 
ticular convention  broke.  We  change  wet  trousers 
in  the  town ;  we  do  not  in  the  woods.  The  extras 
were  relegated  to  pile  number  three,  and  my  pack, 
already  apparently  down  to  a  minimum,  lost  a  few 
pounds  more. 

You  will  want  a  hat,  a  good  hat  to  turn  rain,  with 
a  medium  brim.  If  you  are  wise,  you  will  get  it  too 
small  for  your  head,  and  rip  out  the  lining.  The  felt 
will  cling  tenaciously  to  your  hair,  so  that  you  will 
find  the  snatches  of  the  brush  and  the  wind  generally 
unavailing. 

By  way  of  undergarments  wear  woolen.   Buy  win- 

14 


It  rained  twelve  ot  the  first  fourteen  days  we  were  out ' 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  GOING  LIGHT 

ter  weights  even  for  midsummer.  In  traveling  with 
a  pack  a  man  is  going  to  sweat  in  streams,  no  matter 
what  he  puts  on  or  takes  off,  and  the  thick  garment 
will  be  found  no  more  oppressive  than  the  thin. 
And  then  in  the  cool  of  the  woods  or  of  the  even- 
ing he  avoids  a  chill.  And  he  can  plunge  into  the 
coldest  water  with  impunity,  sure  that  ten  minutes 
of  the  air  will  dry  him  fairly  well.  Until  you  have 
shivered  in  clammy  cotton,  you  cannot  realize  the 
importance  of  this  point.  Ten  minutes  of  cotton 
underwear  in  cold  water  will  chill.  On  the  other 
hand,  suitably  clothed  in  wool,  I  have  waded  the  ice 
water  of  north  country  streams  when  the  thermome- 
ter was  so  low  I  could  see  my  breath  in  the  air,  with- 
out other  discomfort  than  a  cold  ring  around  my 
legs  to  mark  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  a  slight 
numbness  in  my  feet  when  I  emerged.  Therefore, 
even  in  hot  weather,  wear  heavy  wool.  It  is  the  most 
comfortable.  Undoubtedly  you  will  come  to  believe 
this  only  by  experience. 

Do  not  carry  a  coat.  This  is  another  preconcep- 
tion of  civilization,  exceedingly  difficult  to  get  rid 
of  You  will  never  wear  it  while  packing.  In  a 
rain  you  will  find  that  it  wets  through  so  promptly 
as  to  be  of  little  use ;  or,  if  waterproof,  the  inside 
condensation  will  more  than  equal  the  rain-water. 
In  camp  you  will  discard  it  because  it  will  impede 
the  swing  of  your  arms.  The  end  of  that  coat  will 
be  a  brief  half  hour  after  supper,  and  a  makeshift 

15 


THE  FOREST 

roll  to  serve  as  a  pillow  during  the  night.  And  for 
these  a  sweater  is  better  in  every  way. 

In  fact,  if  you  feel  you  must  possess  another  out- 
side garment,  let  it  be  an  extra  sweater.  You  can 
sleep  in  it,  use  it  when  your  day  garment  is  soaked, 
or  even  tie  things  in  it  as  in  a  bag.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary, however. 

One  good  shirt  is  enough.  When  you  wash  it, 
substitute  the  sweater  until  it  dries.  In  fact,  by  keep- 
ing the  sweater  always  in  your  waterproof  bag,  you 
possess  a  dry  garment  to  change  into.  Two  hand- 
kerchiefs are  enough.  One  should  be  of  silk,  for 
neck,  head,  or  —  in  case  of  cramps  or  intense  cold  — 
the  stomach;  the  other  of  colored  cotton  for  the 
pocket.  Both  can  be  quickly  washed,  and  dried  en 
route.  Three  pairs  of  heavy  wool  socks  will  be 
enough,  —  one  for  wear,  one  for  night,  and  one  for 
extra.  A  second  pair  of  drawers  supplements  the 
sweater  when  a  temporary  day  change  is  desirable. 
Heavy  kersey  "  driver's  "  trousers  are  the  best.  They 
are  cheap,  dry  very  quickly,  and  are  not  easily 
"  picked  out "  by  the  brush. 

The  best  blanket  is  that  made  by  the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  for  its  servants,  —  a  "three-point" 
for  summer  is  heavy  enough.  The  next  best  is  our 
own  gray  army  blanket.  One  of  rubber  should  fold 
about  it,  and  a  pair  of  narrow  buckle  straps  is  handy 
to  keep  the  bundle  right  and  tight  and  waterproof. 
As  for  a  tent,  buy  the  smallest  shelter  you  can  get 

i6 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  GOING  LIGHT 

along  with,  have  it  made  of  balloon  silk  well  water- 
proofed, and  supplement  it  with  a  duplicate  tent  of 
light  cheesecloth  to  suspend  inside  as  a  fly-proof 
defense.  A  seven-by-seven  three-man  A-tent,  which 
would  weigh  between  twenty  and  thirty  pounds  if 
made  of  duck,  means  only  about  eight  pounds  con- 
structed of  this  material.  And  it  is  waterproof  I 
own  one  which  I  have  used  for  three  seasons.  It 
has  been  employed  as  tarpaulin,  fly,  even  blanket  on 
a  pinch ;  it  has  been  packed  through  the  roughest 
country;  I  have  even  pressed  it  into  service  as  a  sort 
of  canoe  lining;  but  it  is  still  as  good  as  ever.  Such 
a  tent  sometimes  condenses  a  little  moisture  in  a  cold 
rain,  but  it  never  "  sprays  "  as  does  a  duck  shelter ; 
it  never  leaks  simply  because  you  have  accidentally 
touched  its  under-surface ;  and,  best  of  all,  it  weighs 
no  more  after  a  rain  than  before  it.  This  latter  item 
is  perhaps  its  best  recommendation.  The  confront- 
ing with  equanimity  of  a  wet  day's  journey  in  the 
shower-bath  brush  of  our  northern  forests  requires  a 
degree  of  philosophy  which  a  gratuitous  ten  pounds 
of  soaked-up  water  sometimes  most  effectually  breaks 
down.  I  know  of  but  one  place  where  such  a  tent 
can  be  bought.  The  address  will  be  gladly  sent  to 
any  one  practically  interested. 

As  for  the  actual  implements  of  the  trade,  they 
are  not  many,  although  of  course  the  sporting  goods 
stores  are  full  of  all  sorts  of  "  handy  contrivances." 
A  small  axe,  —  one  of  the  pocket  size  will  do,  if 

'7 


THE  FOREST 

you  get  the  right  shape  and  balance,  although  a  light 
regulation  axe  is  better;  a  thin-bladed  sheath-knife 
of  the  best  steel ;  a  pocket-knife ;  a  compass ;  a  water- 
proof match-safe;  fishing-tackle;  firearms;  and  cook- 
ing utensils  comprise  the  list.  All  others  belong 
to  permanent  camps,  or  open-water  cruises,  —  not  to 
"  hikes  "  in  the  woods. 

The  items,  with  the  exception  of  the  last  two, 
seem  to  explain  themselves.  During  the  summer 
months  in  the  North  Woods  you  will  not  need  a  rifle. 
Partridges,  spruce  hens,  ptarmigan,  rabbits,  ducks, 
and  geese  are  usually  abundant  enough  to  fill  the 
provision  list.  For  them,  of  course,  a  shotgun  is  the 
thing;  but  since  such  a  weapon  weighs  many  pounds, 
and  its  ammunition  many  more,  I  have  come  gradu- 
ally to  depend  entirely  on  a  pistol.  The  instrument 
is  single  shot,  carries  a  six-inch  barrel,  is  fitted  with 
a  special  butt,  and  is  built  on  the  graceful  lines  of  a 
38-calibre  Smith  &  Wesson  revolver.  Its  cartridge 
is  the  22  long-rifle,  a  target  size,  that  carries  as  accu- 
rately as  you  can  hold  for  upwards  of  an  hundred 
yards.  With  it  I  have  often  killed  a  half  dozen  of 
partridges  from  the  same  tree.  The  ammunition  •  is 
light.  Altogether  it  is  a  most  satisfactory,  conven- 
ient, and  accurate  weapon,  and  quite  adequate  to  all 
small  game.  In  fact  an  Indian  named  Tawabinisay, 
after  seeing  it  perform,  once  borrowed  it  to  kill  a 
moose. 

"  I  shootum  in  eye,"  said  he. 

18 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  GOING  LIGHT 

By  way  of  cooking  utensils,  buy  aluminum.  It  is 
expensive,  but  so  light  and  so  easily  cleaned  that  it 
is  well  worth  all  you  may  have  to  pay.  If  you  are 
alone  you  will  not  want  to  carry  much  hardware.  I 
made  a  twenty-day  trip  once  with  nothing  but  a  tin 
cup  and  a  frying-pan.  Dishes,  pails,  wash-basins,  and 
other  receptacles  can  always  be  made  of  birch  bark 
and  cedar  withes  —  by  one  who  knows  how.  The 
ideal  outfit  for  two  or  three  is  a  cup,  fork,  and  spoon 
apiece,  one  tea-pail,  two  kettle-pails,  and  a  frying-pan. 
The  latter  can  be  used  as  a  bread-oven. 

A  few  minor  items,  of  practically  no  weight,  sug- 
gest themselves,  —  toilet  requisites,  fly-dope,  needle 
and  thread,  a  cathartic,  pain-killer,  a  roll  of  surgeon's 
bandage,  pipe  and  tobacco.  But  when  the  pack  is 
made  up,  and  the  duffel  bag  tied,  you  find  that,  while 
fitted  for  every  emergency  but  that  of  catastrophe, 
you  are  prepared  to  "  go  light" 


19 


THE  JUMPING-OFF   PLACE 


Ill 

THE  JUMPING-OFF  PLACE 

SOMETIME,  no  matter  how  long  your  journey, 
you  will  reach  a  spot  whose  psychological  effect 
is  so  exactly  like  a  dozen  others  that  you  will  recog- 
nize at  once  its  iiinship  with  former  experience.  Mere 
physical  likeness  does  not  count  at  all.  It  may  pos- 
sess a  water  front  of  laths  and  sawdust,  or  an  outlook 
over  broad,  shimmering,  heat-baked  plains.  It  may 
front  the  impassive  fringe  of  a  forest,  or  it  may  skirt 
the  calm  stretch  of  a  river.  But  whether  of  log  or 
mud,  stone  or  unpainted  board,  its  identity  becomes 
at  first  sight  indubitably  evident.  Were  you,  by  the 
wave  of  some  beneficent  wand,  to  be  transported 
direct  to  it  from  the  heart  of  the  city,  you  could  not 
fail  to  recognize  it.  "  The  jumping-off  place  !  "  you 
would  cry  ecstatically,  and  turn  with  unerring  instinct 
to  the  Aromatic  Shop. 

For  here  is  where  begins  the  Long  Trail.  Whether 
it  will  lead  you  through  the  forests,  or  up  the  hills,  or 
over  the  plains,  or  by  invisible  water  paths ;  whether 
you  will  accomplish  it  on  horseback,  or  in  canoe,  or 
by  the  transportation  of  your  own  two  legs ;  whether 

23 


THE  FOREST 

your  companions  shall  be  white  or  red,  or  merely 
the  voices  of  the  wilds  —  these  things  matter  not  a 
particle.  In  the  symbol  of  this  little  town  you  loose 
your  hold  on  the  world  of  made  things,  and  shift  for 
yourself  among  the  unchanging  conditions  of  nature. 
Here  the  faint  forest  flavor,  the  subtle  invisible 
breath  of  freedom,  stirs  faintly  across  men's  conven- 
tions. The  ordinary  affairs  of  life  savor  of  this  tang  — 
a  trace  of  wildness  in  the  domesticated  berry.  In  the 
dress  of  the  inhabitants  is  a  dash  of  color,  a  careless- 
ness of  port;  in  the  manner  of  their  greeting  is  the 
clear,  steady-eyed  taciturnity  of  the  silent  places ; 
through  the  web  of  their  gray  talk  of  ways  and  means 
and  men's  simpler  beliefs  runs  a  thread  of  color.  One 
hears  strange,  suggestive  words  and  phrases  —  ara- 
pajo,  capote,  arroyo,  the  diamond  hitch,  cache,  butte, 
coule,  muskegs,  portage,  and  a  dozen  others  coined 
into  the  tender  of  daily  use.  And  occasionally,  when 
the  expectation  is  least  alert,  one  encounters  sud- 
denly the  very  symbol  of  the  wilderness  itself — a 
dust-whitened  cowboy,  an  Indian  packer  with  his 
straight,  fillet-confined  hair,  a  voyage ur  gay  in  red 
sash  and  ornamented  moccasins,  one  of  the  Com- 
pany's canoemen,  hollow-cheeked  from  the  river  — 
no  costumed  show  exhibit,  but  fitting  naturally  into 
the  scene,  bringing  something  of  the  open  space  with 
him  —  so  that  in  your  imagination  the  little  town 
gradually  takes  on  the  color  of  mystery  which  an 
older  community  utterly  lacks. 

24 


THE  JUMPING-OFF  PLACE 

But  perhaps  the  strongest  of  the  influences  which 
unite  to  assure  the  psychological  kinships  of  thejump- 
ing-ofF  places  is  that  of  the  Aromatic  Shop.  It  is 
usually  a  board  affair,  with  a  broad  high  sidewalk 
shaded  by  a  wooden  awning.  You  enter  through  a 
narrow  door,  and  find  yourself  facing  two  dusky  aisles 
separated  by  a  narrow  division  of  goods,  and  flanked 
by  wooden  counters.  So  far  it  is  exactly  like  the  cor- 
ner store  of  our  rural  districts.  But  in  the  dimness  of 
these  two  aisles  lurks  the  spirit  of  the  wilds.  There 
in  a  row  hang  fifty  pair  of  smoke-tanned  moccasins ; 
in  another  an  equal  number  of  oil-tanned ;  across  the 
background  you  can  make  out  snowshoes.  The 
shelves  are  high  with  blankets,  —  three-point,  four- 
point,  —  thick  and  warm  for  the  out-of-doors.  Should 
you  care  to  examine,  the  storekeeper  will  hook  down 
from  aloft  capotes  of  different  degrees  of  fineness. 
Fathoms  of  black  tobacco-rope  lie  coiled  in  tubs. 
Tump-lines  welter  in  a  tangle  of  dimness.  On  a 
series  of  little  shelves  is  the  ammunition,  fascinating 
in  the  attraction  of  mere  numbers  —  44  Winchester, 
45  Colt,  40-82,  30-40,  44  S.  &  W.  —  they  all  con- 
note something  to  the  accustomed  mind,  just  as  do 
the  numbered  street  names  of  New  York. 

An  exploration  is  always  bringing  something  new 
to  light  among  the  commonplaces  of  ginghams  and 
working  shirts  and  canned  goods  and  stationery  and 
the  other  thousands  of  civilized  drearinesses  to  be 
found  in  every  country  store.  From  under  the  coun- 
ts 


THE  FOREST 

ter  you  drag  out  a  mink  skin  or  so ;  from  the  dark 
corner  an  assortment  of  steel  traps.  In  a  loft  a  birch- 
bark  mokok,  fifty  pounds  heavy  with  granulated 
maple  sugar,  dispenses  a  faint  perfume. 

For  this  is,  above  all,  the  Aromatic  Shop.  A  hun- 
dred ghosts  of  odors  mingle  to  produce  the  spirit  of 
it.  The  reek  of  the  camp-fires  is  in  its  buckskin, 
of  the  woods  in  its  birch  bark,  of  the  muskegs  in 
its  sweet  grass,  of  the  open  spaces  in  its  peltries,  of 
the  evening  meal  in  its  coffees  and  bacons,  of  the 
portage  trail  in  the  leather  of  the  tump-lines.  I  am 
speaking  now  of  the  country  of  which  we  are  to  write. 
The  shops  of  the  other  jumping-ofF  places  are  equally 
aromatic  —  whether  with  the  leather  of  saddles,  the 
freshness  of  ash  paddles,  or  the  pungency  of  marline ; 
and  once  the  smell  of  them  is  in  your  nostrils  you 
cannot  but  away. 

The  Aromatic  Shop  is  always  kept  by  the  wisest, 
the  most  accommodating,  the  most  charming  shop- 
keeper in  the  world.  He  has  all  leisure  to  give  you, 
and  enters  into  the  innermost  spirit  of  your  buying. 
He  is  of  supernal  sagacity  in  regard  to  supplies  and 
outfits,  and  if  he  does  not  know  all  about  routes,  at 
least  he  is  acquainted  with  the  very  man  who  can  tell 
you  everything  you  want  to  know.  He  leans  both 
elbows  on  the  counter,  you  swing  your  feet,  and  to- 
gether you  go  over  the  list,  while  the  Indian  stands 
smoky  and  silent  in  the  background.  "Now,  if 
I  was  you,"  says  he,  "  I  'd  take  just  a  little  more 

26 


THE  JUMPING-OFF  PLACE 

pork.  You  won't  be  eatin'  so  much  yourself,  but 
these  Injuns  ain't  got  no  bottom  when  it  comes  to 
sow-belly.  And  I  would  n't  buy  all  that  coffee.  You 
ain't  goin'  to  want  much  after  the  first  edge  is  worn 
off  Tea 's  the  boy."  The  Indian  shoots  a  few  rapid 
words  across  the  discussion.  "  He  says  you  '11  want 
some  iron  shoes  to  fit  on  canoe  poles  for  when  you 
come  back  upstream,"  interprets  your  friend.  "I 
guess  that 's  right.  I  ain't  got  none,  but  th'  black- 
smith '11  fit  you  out  all  right.  You  '11  find  him  just 
below  —  never  mind,  don't  you  bother,  I  '11  see  to  all 
that  for  you." 

The  next  morning  he  saunters  into  view  at  the 
river-bank.  "  Thought  I  'd  see  you  off,"  he  replies 
to  your  expression  of  surprise  at  his  early  rising. 
"  Take  care  of  yourself"  And  so  the  last  hand-clasp 
of  civilization  is  extended  to  you  from  the  little 
Aromatic  Shop. 

Occasionally,  however,  though  very  rarely,  you 
step  to  the  Long  Trail  from  the  streets  of  a  raw 
modern  town.  The  chance  presence  of  some  local 
industry  demanding  a  large  population  of  workmen, 
combined  with  first-class  railroad  transportation,  may 
plant  an  electric-lighted,  saloon-lined,  brick-hoteled 
city  in  the  middle  of  the  wilderness.  Lumber,  mines, 
—  especially  of  the  baser  metals  or  commercial  min- 
erals, —  fisheries,  a  terminus  of  water  freightage,  may 
one  or  all  call  into  existence  a  community  a  hundred 
years  in  advance  of  its  environment.    Then  you  lose 

27 


THE  FOREST 

the  savor  of  the  jump-off.  Nothing  can  quite  take 
the  place  of  the  instant  plunge  into  the  wilderness, 
for  you  must  travel  three  or  four  days  from  such 
a  place  before  you  sense  the  forest  in  its  vastness, 
even  though  deer  may  eat  the  cabbages  at  the  edge 
of  town.  Occasionally,  however,  by  force  of  crude 
contrast  to  the  brick-heated  atmosphere,  the  breath 
of  the  woods  reaches  your  cheek,  and  always  you  own 
a  very  tender  feeling  for  the  cause  of  it. 

Dick  and  myself  were  caught  in  such  a  place. 
It  was  an  unfinished  little  town,  with  brick-fronted 
stores,  arc-lights  swaying  over  fathomless  mud,  big 
superintendent's  and  mill-owner's  houses  of  bastard 
architecture  in  a  blatant  superiority  of  hill  location,  a 
hotel  whose  office  chairs  supported  a  variety  of  cheap 
drummers,  and  stores  screeching  in  an  attempt  at 
metropolitan  smartness.  We  inspected  the  stand* 
pipe  and  the  docks,  walked  a  careless  mile  of  board 
walk,  kicked  a  dozen  pugnacious  dogs  from  our 
setter,  Deuce,  and  found  ourselves  at  the  end  of  our 
resources.  As  a  crowd  seemed  to  be  gathering  about 
the  wooden  railway  station,  we  joined  it  in  sheer  idle- 
ness. 

It  seemed  that  an  election  had  taken  place  the 
day  before,  that  one  Smith  had  been  chosen  to  the 
Assembly,  and  that,  though  this  district  had  gone 
anti-Smith,  the  candidate  was  expected  to  stop  off 
an  hour  on  his  way  to  a  more  westerly  point.  Con- 
sequently the  town  was  on  hand  to  receive  him. 


**  This  old  soldier  had  come  in  from  the  Long  Trail  to  bear  again 
the  flag  of  his  country  " 


THE  JUMPING-OFF  PLACE 

The  crowd,  we  soon  discovered,  was  bourgeois  In 
the  extreme.  Young  men  from  the  mill  escorted 
young  women  from  the  shops.  The  young  men 
wore  flaring  collars  three  sizes  too  large  ;  the  young 
women,  white  cotton  mitts  three  sizes  too  small. 
The  older  men  spat,  and  talked  through  their  noses ; 
the  women  drawled  out  a  monotonous  flow  of  speech 
concerning  the  annoyances  of  domestic  life.  A  gang 
of  uncouth  practical  jokers,  exploding  in  horse-laugh- 
ter, skylarked  about,  jostling  rudely.  A  village  band, 
uniformed  solely  with  cheap  carriage-cloth  caps, 
brayed  excruciatingly.  The  reception  committee 
had  decorated,  with  red  and  white  silesia  streamers 
and  rosettes,  an  ordinary  side-bar  buggy,  to  which  a 
long  rope  had  been  attached,  that  the  great  man 
might  be  dragged  by  his  fellow-citizens  to  the  pub- 
lic square. 

Nobody  seemed  to  be  taking  the  affair  too  seri- 
ously. It  was  evidently  more  than  half  a  joke.  Anti- 
Smith  was  more  good-humoredly  in  evidence  than 
the  winning  party.  Just  this  touch  of  buffoonery 
completed  our  sense  of  the  farce-comedy  character 
of  the  situation.  The  town  was  tawdry  in  its  pre- 
parations —  and  knew  it ;  but  half  sincere  in  its 
enthusiasm  —  and  knew  it.  If  the  crowd  had  been 
composed  of  Americans,  we  should  have  anticipated 
an  unhappy  time  for  Smith ;  but  good,  loyal  Cana- 
dians, by  the  limitations  of  temperament,  could  get 
no  further  than  a  spirit  of  manifest  irreverence. 

29 


THE  FOREST 

In  the  shifting  of  the  groups  Dick  and  I  became 
separated,  but  shortly  I  made  him  out  worming  his 
way  excitedly  toward  me,  his  sketch-book  open  in 
his  hand. 

"  Come  here,"  he  whispered.  "  There 's  going  to  be 
fun.  They  're  going  to  open  up  on  old  Smith,  after 
all." 

I  followed.  The  decorated  side-bar  buggy  might 
be  well  meant ;  tne  village  band  need  not  have  been 
interpreted  as  an  ironical  compliment;  the  rest  of 
the  celebration  might  indicate  paucity  of  resource 
rather  than  facetious  intent ;  but  surely  the  figure  of 
fiin  before  us  could  not  be  otherwise  construed  than 
as  a  deliberate  advertising  in  the  face  of  success  of 
the  town's  real  attitude  toward  the  celebration. 

The  man  was  short.  He  wore  a  felt  hat,  so  big 
that  it  rested  on  his  ears.  A  gray  wool  shirt  hung 
below  his  neck.  A  cutaway  coat  miles  too  large 
depended  below  his  knees  and  to  the  first  joints 
of  his  fingers.  By  way  of  official  uniform  his  legs 
were  incased  in  an  ordinary  rough  pair  of  miller's 
white  trousers,  on  which  broad  stripes  of  red  flannel 
had  been  roughly  sewn.  Everything  was  wrinkled  in 
the  folds  of  too-bigness.  As  though  to  accentuate 
the  note,  the  man  stood  very  erect,  very  military,  and 
supported  in  one  hand  the  staff  of  an  English  flag. 
This  figure  of  fun,  this  man  made  from  the  slop- 
chest,  this  caricature  of  a  scarecrow,  had  been  put 
forth  by  heavy-handed  facetiousness  to  the  post  of 

30 


THE  JUMPING-OFF  PLACE 

greatest  honor.    He  was  Standard-Bearer  to  the  occa- 
sionl    Surely  subtle  irony  could  go  no  further. 

A  sudden  movement  caused  the  man  to  turn. 
One  sleeve  of  the  faded,  ridiculous  old  cutaway  was 
empty.  He  turned  again.  From  under  the  ear- 
flanging  hat  looked  unflinching  the  clear,  steady  blue 
eye  of  the  woodsman.  And  so  we  knew.  This  old 
soldier  had  come  in  from  the  Long  Trail  to  bear 
again  the  flag  of  his  country.  If  his  clothes  were 
old  and  ill-fitting,  at  least  they  were  his  best,  and  the 
largeness  of  the  empty  sleeve  belittled  the  too-large- 
ness  of  the  other.  In  all  this  ribald,  laughing,  irrev- 
erent, commonplace,  semi-vicious  crowd  he  was  the 
one  note  of  sincerity.  To  him  this  was  a  real  occa- 
sion, and  the  exalted  reverence  in  his  eye  for  the  task 
he  was  so  simply  performing  was  Smith's  real  tri- 
umph—  if  he  could  have  known  it.  We  understood 
now,  we  felt  the  imminence  of  the  Long  Trail.  For 
the  first  time  the  little  brick,  tawdry  town  gripped 
our  hearts  with  the  well-known  thrill  of  the  Jumping- 
Off  Place.  Suddenly  the  great,  simple,  unashamed 
wilderness  drew  near  us  as  with  the  rush  of  wings. 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 


IV 

ON  MAKING  CAMP 

*«  Who  hath  smelt  wood-smoke  at  twilight  ?    Who  hath  heard  the 

birch  log  burning  ? 
Who  is  quick  to  read  the  noises  of  the  night  ? 
Let  him  follow  with  the  others,  for  the  young  men's  feet  arc  turning 
To  the  camps  of  proved  desire  and  known  delight." 

IN  the  Ojibway  language  wigwam  means  a  good 
spot  for  camping,  a  place  cleared  for  a  camp,  a 
camp  as  an  abstract  proposition,  and  a  camp  in  the 
concrete  as  represented  by  a  tent,  a  thatched  shelter, 
or  a  conical  tepee.  In  like  manner,  the  English 
word  camp  lends  itself  to  a  variety  of  concepts.  I 
once  slept  in  a  four-poster  bed  over  a  polished  floor 
in  an  elaborate  servant-haunted  structure  which, 
mainly  because  it  was  built  of  logs  and  overlooked 
a  lake,  the  owner  always  spoke  of  as  his  camp. 
Again,  I  once  slept  on  a  bed  of  prairie  grass,  before 
a  fire  of  dried  buffalo  chips  and  mesquite,  wrapped 
in  a  single  light  blanket,  while  a  good  vigorous  rain- 
storm made  new  cold  places  on  me  and  under  me 
all  night.  In  the  morning  the  cowboy  with  whom 
I  was  traveling  remarked  that  this  was  "  sure  a  lone- 
some proposition  as  a  camp." 

35 


THE  FOREST 

Between  these  two  extremes  is  infinite  variety, 
grading  upwards  through  the  divers  bivouacs  of 
snow,  plains,  pines,  or  hills,  to  the  bark  shelter ;  past 
the  dog-tent,  the  A-tent,  the  wall-tent,  to  the  elaborate 
permanent  canvas  cottage  of  the  luxurious  camper, 
the  dug-out  winter  retreat  of  the  range  cowboy,  the 
trapper's  cabin,  the  great  log-built  lumber-jack  com- 
munities, and  the  last  refinements  of  sybaritic  summer 
homes  in  the  Adirondacks.  All  these  are  camps. 
And  when  you  talk  of  making  camp  you  must  know 
whether  that  process  is  to  mean  only  a  search  for 
rattlesnakes  and  enough  acrid-smoked  fuel  to  boil 
tea,  or  a  winter's  consultation  with  an  expert  archi- 
tect ;  whether  your  camp  is  to  be  made  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  Omar's  one-night  Sultan,  or  whether  it  is 
intended  to  accommodate  the  full  days  of  an  entire 
summer. 

But  to  those  who  tread  the  Long  Trail  the  mak- 
ing of  camp  resolves  itself  into  an  algebraical  for- 
mula. After  a  man  has  traveled  all  day  through  the 
Northern  wilderness  he  wants  to  rest,  and  anything 
that  stands  between  himself  and  his  repose  he  must 
get  rid  of  in  as  few  motions  as  is  consistent  with 
reasonable  thoroughness.  The  end  in  view  is  a  hot 
meal  and  a  comfortable  dry  place  to  sleep.  The 
straighter  he  can  draw  the  line  to  those  two  points 
the  happier  he  is. 

Early  in  his  woods  experience  Dick  became  pos- 
sessed with  the  desire  to  do  everything  for  himself. 

36 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

As  this  was  a  laudable  striving  for  self-sufficiency,  I 
called  a  halt  at  about  three  o'clock  one  afternoon  in 
order  to  give  him  plenty  of  time. 

Now  Dick  is  a  good,  active,  able-bodied  boy,  pos- 
sessed of  average  intelligence  and  rather  more  than 
average  zeal.  He  even  had  theory  of  a  sort,  for  he 
had  read  various  "Boy  Campers,  or  the  Trapper's 
Guide,"  "How  to  Camp  Out,"  "The  Science  of 
Woodcraft,"  and  other  able  works.  He  certainly 
had  ideas  enough,  and  confidence  enough.  I  sat 
down  on  a  log. 

At  the  end  of  three  hours'  flusteration,  heat,  worry, 
and  good  hard  work,  he  had  accomplished  the  fol- 
lowing results :  A  tent,  very  saggy,  very  askew,  cov- 
ered a  four-sided  area  —  it  was  not  a  rectangle — of 
very  bumpy  ground.  A  hodge-podge  bonfire,  in  the 
centre  of  which  an  inaccessible  coffee-pot  toppled 
menacingly,  alternately  threatened  to  ignite  the  entire 
sunounding  forest  or  to  go  out  altogether  through 
lack  of  fuel.  Personal  belongings  strewed  the  ground 
near  the  fire,  and  provisions  cumbered  the  entrance 
to  the  tent.  Dick  was  anxiously  mixing  batter  for 
the  cakes,  attempting  to  stir  a  pot  of  rice  often 
enough  to  prevent  it  from  burning,  and  trying  to 
rustle  sufficient  dry  wood  to  keep  the  fire  going. 
This  diversity  of  interests  certainly  made  him  sit  up 
and  pay  attention.  At  each  instant  he  had  to  desert 
his  flour-sack  to  rescue  the  coffee-pot,  or  to  shift  the 
kettle,  or  to  dab  hastily  at  the  rice,  or  to  stamp  out 

37 


THE  FOREST 

the  small  brush,  or  to  pile  on  more  dry  twigs.  His 
movements  were  not  graceful.  They  raised  a  scurry 
of  dry  bark,  ashes,  wood  dust,  twigs,  leaves,  and  pine 
needles,  a  certain  proportion  of  which  found  their 
way  into  the  coffee,  the  rice,  and  the  sticky  batter, 
while  the  smaller  articles  of  personal  belonging,  has- 
tily dumped  from  the  duffel-bag,  gradually  disap- 
peared from  view  in  the  manner  of  Pompeii  and 
ancient  Vesuvius.  Dick  burned  his  fingers  and  stum- 
bled about  and  swore,  and  looked  so  comically-pa- 
thetically  red-faced  through  the  smoke  that  I,  seated 
on  the  log,  at  the  same  time  laughed  and  pitied. 
And  in  the  end,  when  he  needed  a  continuous  steady 
fire  to  fry  his  cakes,  he  suddenly  discovered  that  dry 
twigs  do  not  make  coals,  and  that  his  previous  opera- 
tions had  used  up  all  the  fuel  within  easy  circle  of 
the  camp. 

So  he  had  to  drop  everything  for  the  purpose  of 
rustling  wood,  while  the  coffee  chilled,  the  rice  cooled, 
the  bacon  congealed,  and  all  the  provisions,  cooked 
and  uncooked,  gathered  entomological  specimens. 
At  the  last,  the  poor  bedeviled  theorist  made  a  hasty 
meal  of  scorched  food,  brazenly  postponed  the  wash- 
ing of  dishes  until  the  morrow,  and  coiled  about  his 
hummocky  couch  to  dream  the  nightmares  of  com- 
plete exhaustion. 

Poor  Dick !  I  knew  exactly  how  he  felt,  how  the 
low  afternoon  sun  scorched,  how  the  fire  darted  out 
at  unexpected  places,  how  the  smoke  followed  him 

38 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

around,  no  matter  on  which  side  of  the  fire  he  placed 
himself,  how  the  flies  all  took  to  biting  when  both 
hands  were  occupied,  and  how  they  all  miraculously 
disappeared  when  he  had  set  down  the  frying-pan  and 
knife  to  fight  them.  I  could  sympathize,  too,  with 
the  lonely,  forlorn,  lost-dog  feeling  that  clutched  him 
after  it  was  all  over.  I  could  remember  how  big  and 
forbidding  and  unfriendly  the  forest  had  once  looked 
to  me  in  like  circumstances,  so  that  I  had  felt  sud- 
denly thrust  outside  into  empty  spaces.  Almost  was 
I  tempted  to  intervene;  but  I  liked  Dick,  and  I 
wanted  to  do  him  good.  This  experience  was  har- 
rowing, but  it  prepared  his  mind  for  the  seeds  of 
wisdom.  By  the  following  morning  he  had  chastened 
his  spirit,  forgotten  the  assurance  breathed  from  the 
windy  pages  of  the  Boy  Trapper  Library,  and  was 
ready  to  learn. 

Have  you  ever  watched  a  competent  portraitist  at 
work  ?  The  infinite  pains  a  skilled  man  spends  on 
the  preliminaries  before  he  takes  one  step  towards  a 
likeness  nearly  always  wears  down  the  patience  of 
the  sitter.  He  measures  with  his  eye,  he  plumbs, 
he  sketches  tentatively,  he  places  in  here  a  dab,  there 
a  blotch,  he  puts  behind  him  apparently  unproduc- 
tive hours  —  and  then  all  at  once  he  is  ready  to  begin 
something  that  will  not  have  to  be  done  over  again. 
An  amateur,  however,  is  carried  away  by  his  desire 
for  results.  He  dashes  in  a  hit-or-miss  early  effect, 
which  grows  into  an  approximate  likeness  almost 

39 


THE  FOREST 

immediately,  but  which  will  require  infinite  labor, 
alteration,  and  anxiety  to  beat  into  finished  shape. 

The  case  of  the  artist  in  making  camps  is  exactly 
similar,  and  the  philosophical  reasons  for  his  failure 
are  exactly  the  same.  To  the  superficial  mind  a  camp 
is  a  shelter,  a  bright  fire,  and  a  smell  of  cooking.  So 
when  a  man  is  very  tired  he  cuts  across  lots  to  those 
three  results.  He  pitches  his  tent,  lights  his  fire, 
puts  over  his  food  —  and  finds  himself  drowned  in 
detail,  like  my  friend  Dick. 

The  following  is,  in  brief,  what  during  the  next 
six  weeks  I  told  that  youth,  by  precept,  by  homily, 
and  by  making  the  solution  so  obvious  that  he  could 
work  it  out  for  himself 

When  five  or  six  o'clock  draws  near,  begin  to  look 
about  you  for  a  good  level  dry  place,  elevated  some 
few  feet  above  the  surroundings.  Drop  your  pack 
or  beach  your  canoe.  Examine  the  location  care- 
fully. You  will  want  two  trees  about  ten  feet  apart, 
from  which  to  suspend  your  tent,  and  a  bit  of  flat 
ground  underneath  them.  Of  course  the  flat  ground 
need  not  be  particularly  unencumbered  by  brush  or 
saplings,  so  the  combination  ought  not  to  be  hard 
to  discover.  Now  return  to  your  canoe.  Do  not 
unpack  the  tent. 

With  the  little  axe  clear  the  ground  thoroughly. 
By  bending  a  sapling  over  strongly  with  the  left  hand, 
clipping  sharply  at  the  strained  fibers,  and  then  bend- 
ing it  as  strongly  the  other  way  to  repeat  the  axe 

40 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

stroke  on  the  other  side,  you  will  find  that  treelets  of 
even  two  or  three  inches  diameter  can  be  felled  by 
two  blows.  In  a  very  few  moments  you  will  have 
accomplished  a  hole  in  the  forest,  and  your  two  sup- 
porting trees  will  stand  sentinel  at  either  end  of  a 
most  respectable-looking  clearing.  Do  not  unpack 
the  tent. 

Now,  although  the  ground  seems  free  of  all  but 
unimportant  growths,  go  over  it  thoroughly  for  little 
shrubs  and  leaves.  They  look  soft  and  yielding,  but 
are  often  possessed  of  unexpectedly  abrasive  roots. 
Besides,  they  mask  the  face  of  the  ground.  When 
you  have  finished  pulling  them  up  by  the  roots,  you 
will  find  that  your  supposedly  level  plot  is  knobby 
with  hummocks.  Stand  directly  over  each  little 
mound;  swing  the  back  of  your  axe  vigorously 
against  it,  adze-wise,  between  your  legs.  Nine  times 
out  of  ten  it  will  crumble,  and  the  tenth  time  means 
merely  a  root  to  cut  or  a  stone  to  pry  out.  At  length 
you  are  possessed  of  a  plot  of  clean,  fresh  earth,  level 
and  soft,  free  from  projections.  But  do  not  unpack 
your  tent. 

Lay  a  young  birch  or  maple  an  inch  or  so  in 
diameter  across  a  log.  Two  clips  will  produce  you 
a  tent-peg.  If  you  are  inexperienced,  and  cherish 
memories  of  striped  lawnmarkees,  you  will  cut  them 
about  six  inches  long.  If  you  are  wise  and  old  and 
gray  in  woods  experience,  you  will  multiply  that 
lengdi  by  four.    Then  your  loops  will  not  slip  off, 

41 


THE  FOREST 

and  you  will  have  a  real  grip  on  mother  earth,  than 
which  nothing  can  be  more  desirable  in  the  event  of 
a  heavy  rain  and  wind  squall  about  midnight  If 
your  axe  is  as  sharp  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  can  point 
them  more  neatly  by  holding  them  suspended  in 
front  of  you  while  you  snip  at  their  ends  with  the  axe, 
rather  than  by  resting  them  against  a  solid  base.  Pile 
them  together  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  Cut  a 
crotched  sapling  eight  or  ten  feet  long.  Now  unpack 
your  tent. 

In  a  wooded  country  you  will  not  take  the  time 
to  fool  with  tent-poles.  A  stout  line  run  through 
the  eyelets  and  along  the  apex  will  string  it  success- 
fully between  your  two  trees.  Draw  the  line  as  tight 
as  possible,  but  do  not  be  too  unhappy  if,  after  your 
best  efforts,  it  still  sags  a  little.  That  is  what  your 
long  crotched  stick  is  for.  Stake  out  your  four  corners. 
If  you  get  them  in  a  good  rectangle  and  in  such  re- 
lation to  the  apex  as  to  form  two  isosceles  triangles 
of  the  ends,  your  tent  will  stand  smoothly.  There- 
fore, be  an  artist  and  do  it  right.  Once  the  four 
corners  are  well  placed,  the  rest  follows  naturally. 
Occasionally  in  the  North  Country  it  will  be  found 
that  the  soil  is  too  thin,  over  the  rocks,  to  grip  the 
tent-pegs.  In  that  case  drive  them  at  a  sharp  angle 
as  Heep  as  they  will  go,  and  then  lay  a  large  flat  stone 
across  the  slant  of  them.  Thus  anchored,  you  will 
ride  out  a  gale.  Finally,  wedge  your  long  sapling 
crotch  under  the  line  —  outside  the  tent,  of  course  — 

42 


"  In  fifteen  minutes  at  most  your  meal  is  ready 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

to  tighten  it.  Your  shelter  is  up.  If  you  are  a 
woodsman,  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  has  sufficed  to 
accomplish  all  this. 

There  remains  the  question  of  a  bed,  and  you  'd 
better  attend  to  it  now,  while  your  mind  is  still  oc- 
cupied with  the  shelter  problem.  Fell  a  good  thrifty 
young  balsam  and  set  to  work  pulling  off  the  fans. 
Those  you  cannot  strip  off  easily  with  your  hands 
are  too  tough  for  your  purpose.  Lay  them  carelessly 
crisscross  against  the  blade  of  your  axe  and  up  the 
handle.  They  will  not  drop  off,  and  when  you  shoul- 
der that  axe  you  will  resemble  a  walking  haystack, 
and  will  probably  experience  a  genuine  emotion  of 
surprise  at  the  amount  of  balsam  that  can  be  thus 
transported.  In  the  tent  lay  smoothly  one  layer  of 
fans,  convex  side  up,  butts  toward  the  foot.  Now 
thatch  the  rest  on  top  of  this,  thrusting  the  butt  ends 
underneath  the  layer  already  placed  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  leave  the  fan  ends  curving  up  and  down  towards 
the  foot  of  your  bed.  Your  second  emotion  of  sur- 
prise will  assail  you  as  you  realize  how  much  spring 
inheres  in  but  two  or  three  layers  thus  arranged. 
When  you  have  spread  your  rubber  blanket,  you  will 
be  possessed  of  a  bed  as  soft  and  a  great  deal  more 
aromatic  and  luxurious  than  any  you  would  be  able 
to  buy  in  town. 

Your  next  care  is  to  clear  a  living  space  in  front  of 
the  tent.  This  will  take  you  about  twenty  seconds, 
for  you  need  not  be  particular  as  to  stumps,  hum- 

43 


THE  FOREST 

mocks,  or  small  brush.  All  you  want  is  room  for 
cooking,  and  suitable  space  for  spreading  out  your 
provisions.    But  do  not  unpack  anything  yet. 

Your  fireplace  you  will  build  of  two  green  logs 
laid  side  by  side.  The  fire  is  to  be  made  between 
them.  They  should  converge  slightly,  in  order  that 
the  utensils  to  be  rested  across  them  may  be  of  va- 
rious sizes.  If  your  vicinity  yields  flat  stones,  they 
build  up  even  better  than  the  logs  —  unless  they  hap- 
pen to  be  of  granite.  Granite  explodes  most  discon- 
certingly. Poles  sharpened,  driven  upright  into  the 
ground,  and  then  pressed  down  to  slant  over  the 
fireplace,  will  hold  your  kettles  a  suitable  height 
above  the  blaze. 

Fuel  should  be  your  next  thought.  A  roll  of  birch 
bark  first  of  all.  Then  some  of  the  small,  dry,  resin- 
ous branches  that  stick  out  from  the  trunks  of  me- 
dium-sized pines,  living  or  dead.  Finally,  the  wood 
itself  If  you  are  merely  cooking  supper,  and  have 
no  thought  for  a  warmth-fire  or  a  friendship-fire,  I 
should  advise  you  to  stick  to  the  dry  pine  branches, 
helped  out,  in  the  interest  of  coals  for  frying,  by 
a  little  dry  maple  or  birch.  If  you  need  more  of  a 
blaze,  you  will  have  to  search  out,  fell,  and  split  a 
standing  dead  tree.  This  is  not  at  all  necessary.  I 
have  traveled  many  weeks  in  the  woods  without 
using  a  more  formidable  implement  than  a  one-pound 
hatchet.  Pile  your  fuel  —  a  complete  supply,  all 
you  are  going  to  need  —  by  the  side  of  your  already 

44 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

improvised  fireplace.  But,  as  you  value  your  peace 
of  mind,  do  not  fool  with  matches. 

It  will  be  a  little  difficult  to  turn  your  mind  from 
the  concept  of  fire,  to  which  all  these  preparations 
have  compellingly  led  it,  —  especially  as  a  fire  is  the 
one  cheerful  thing  your  weariness  needs  the  most 
at  this  time  of  day,  —  but  you  must  do  so.  Leave 
everything  just  as  it  is,  and  unpack  your  provisions. 

First  of  all,  rinse  your  utensils.  Hang  your  tea- 
pail,  with  the  proper  quantity  of  water,  from  one 
slanting  pole,  and  your  kettle  from  the  other.  Salt 
the  water  in  the  latter  receptacle.  Peel  your  potatoes, 
if  you  have  any ;  open  your  little  provision  sacks ; 
puncture  your  tin  cans,  if  you  have  any ;  slice  your 
bacon ;  clean  your  fish ;  pluck  your  birds ;  mix  your 
dough  or  batter ;  spread  your  table  tinware  on  your 
tarpaulin  or  a  sheet  of  birch  bark ;  cut  a  kettle-lifter ; 
see  that  everything  you  are  going  to  need  is  within 
direct  reach  of  your  hand  as  you  squat  on  your  heels 
before  the  fireplace.   Now  light  your  fire. 

The  civilized  method  is  to  build  a  fire  and  then  to 
touch  a  match  to  the  completed  structure.  If  well 
done  and  in  a  grate  or  stove,  this  works  beautifully. 
Only  in  the  woods  you  have  no  grate.  The  only  sure 
way  is  as  follows :  Hold  a  piece  of  birch  bark  in  your 
hand.  Shelter  your  match  all  you  know  how.  When 
the  bark  has  caught,  lay  it  in  your  fireplace,  assist  it 
with  more  bark,  and  gradually  build  up,  twig  by  twig, 
stick  by  stick,  from  the  first  pin-point  of  flame,  all 

45 


THE  FOREST 

the  fire  you  are  going  to  need.  It  will  not  be  much. 
The  little  hot  blaze  rising  between  the  parallel  logs 
directly  against  the  aluminum  of  your  utensils  will  do 
the  business  in  very  short  order.  In  fifteen  minutes 
at  most  your  meal  is  ready.  And  you  have  been 
able  to  attain  to  hot  food  thus  quickly  because  you 
were  prepared. 

In  case  of  very  wet  weather  the  affair  is  altered 
somewhat.  If  the  rain  has  just  commenced,  do  not 
stop  to  clear  out  very  thoroughly,  but  get  your  tent 
up  as  quickly  as  possible,  in  order  to  preserve  an  area 
of  comparatively  dry  ground.  But  if  the  earth  is 
already  soaked,  you  had  best  build  a  bonfire  to  dry 
out  by,  while  you  cook  over  a  smaller  fire  a  little  dis- 
tance removed,  leaving  the  tent  until  later.  Or  it 
may  be  well  not  to  pitch  the  tent  at  all,  but  to  lay 
it  across  slanting  supports  at  an  angle  to  reflect  the 
heat  against  the  ground. 

It  is  no  joke  to  light  a  fire  in  the  rain.  An  Indian 
can  do  it  more  easily  than  a  white  man,  but  even  an 
Indian  has  more  trouble  than  the  story-books  acknow- 
ledge. You  will  need  a  greater  quantity  of  birch 
bark,  a  bigger  pile  of  resinous  dead  limbs  from  the 
pine-trees,  and  perhaps  the  heart  of  a  dead  pine  stub 
or  stump.  Then,  with  infinite  patience,  you  may 
be  able  to  tease  the  flame.  Sometimes  a  small  dead 
birch  contains  in  the  waterproof  envelope  of  its  bark 
a  species  of  powdery,  dry  touchwood  that  takes  the 
flame  readily.     Still,  it  is  easy  enough  to  start  a 

46 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

blaze  —  a  very  fine-looking,  cheerful,  healthy  blaze ; 
the  difficulty  is  to  prevent  its  petering  out  the  mo- 
ment your  back  is  turned. 

But  the  depths  of  woe  are  sounded  and  the  limit 
of  patience  reached  when  you  are  forced  to  get  break- 
fast in  the  dripping  forest.  After  the  chill  of  early 
dawn  you  are  always  reluctant  in  the  best  of  cir- 
cumstances to  leave  your  blankets,  to  fumble  with 
numbed  fingers  for  matches,  to  handle  cold  steel  and 
slippery  fish.  But  when  every  leaf,  twig,  sapling,  and 
tree  contains  a  douche  of  cold  water ;  when  the  wet- 
ness oozes  about  your  moccasins  from  the  soggy  earth 
with  every  step  you  take ;  when  you  look  about  you 
and  realize  that  somehow,  before  you  can  get  a  mouth- 
ful to  banish  that  before-breakfast  ill-humor,  you 
must  brave  cold  water  in  an  attempt  to  find  enough 
fuel  to  cook  with,  then  your  philosophy  and  early 
religious  training  avail  you  little.  The  first  ninety- 
nine  times  you  are  forced  to  do  this  you  will  proba- 
bly squirm  circumspectly  through  the  brush  in  a  vain 
attempt  to  avoid  shaking  water  down  on  yourself; 
you  will  resent  each  failure  to  do  so,  and  at  the  end 
your  rage  will  personify  the  wilderness  for  the  pur- 
pose of  one  sweeping  anathema.  The  hundredth 
time  will  bring  you  wisdom.  You  will  do  the  anath- 
ema—  rueful  rather  than  enraged  —  from  the  tent 
opening.  Then  you  will  plunge  boldly  in  and  get 
wet.  It  is  not  pleasant,  but  it  has  to  be  done,  and 
you  will  save  much  temper,  not  to  speak  of  time 

47 


THE  FOREST 

Dick  and  I  earned  our  diplomas  at  this  sort  of 
work.  It  rained  twelve  of  the  first  fourteen  days  we 
were  out.  Towards  the  end  of  that  two  weeks  I 
doubt  if  even  an  Indian  could  have  discovered  a 
dry  stick  of  wood  in  the  entire  country.  The  land 
was  of  Laurentian  rock  formation,  running  in  par- 
allel ridges  of  bare  stone  separated  by  hollows  car- 
peted with  a  thin  layer  of  earth.  The  ridges  were 
naturally  ill  adapted  to  camping,  and  the  cup  hol- 
lows speedily  filled  up  with  water  until  they  became 
most  creditable  little  marshes.  Often  we  hunted  for 
an  hour  or  so  before  we  could  find  any  sort  of  a  spot 
to  pitch  our  tent.  As  for  a  fire,  it  was  a  matter  of 
chopping  down  dead  trees  large  enough  to  have 
remained  dry  inside,  of  armfuls  of  birch  bark,  and 
of  the  patient  drying  out,  by  repeated  ignition,  of 
enough  fuel  to  cook  very  simple  meals.  Of  course 
we  could  have  kept  a  big  fire  going  easily  enough, 
but  we  were  traveling  steadily  and  had  not  the  time 
for  that.  In  these  trying  circumstances  Dick  showed 
that,  no  matter  how  much  of  a  tenderfoot  he  might 
be,  he  was  game  enough  under  stress. 

But  to  return  to  our  pleasant  afternoon.  While 
you  are  consuming  the  supper  you  will  hang  over 
some  water  to  heat  for  the  dish-washing,  and  the 
dish-washing  you  will  attend  to  the  moment  you 
have  finished  eating.  Do  not  commit  the  fallacy  of 
sitting  down  for  a  little  rest.  Better  finish  the  job 
completely  while  you  are  about  it.    You  will  appre- 

48 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 

ciate  leisure  so  much  more  later.  In  lack  of  a  wash- 
rag  you  will  find  that  a  bunch  of  tall  grass  bent 
double  makes  an  ideal  swab. 

Now  brush  the  flies  from  your  tent,  drop  the  mos- 
quito-proof lining,  and  enjoy  yourself  The  whole 
task,  from  first  to  last,  has  consumed  but  a  little  over 
an  hour.  And  you  are  through  for  the  day.  In  the 
woods,  as  nowhere  else,  you  will  earn  your  leisure 
only  by  forethought.  Make  no  move  until  you 
know  it  follows  the  line  of  greatest  economy.  To 
putter  is  to  wallow  in  endless  desolation.  If  you 
cannot  move  directly  and  swiftly  and  certainly  along 
the  line  of  least  resistance  in  everything  you  do,  take 
a  guide  with  you ;  you  are  not  of  the  woods  people. 
You  will  never  enjoy  doing  for  yourself,  for  your 
days  will  be  crammed  with  unending  labor. 

It  is  but  a  little  after  seven.  The  long  crimson 
shadows  of  the  North  Country  are  lifting  across  the 
! isles  of  the  forest.  You  sit  on  a  log,  or  lie  on  your 
back,  and  blow  contented  clouds  straight  up  into 
the  air.  Nothing  can  disturb  you  now.  The  wil- 
derness is  yours,  for  you  have  taken  from  it  the 
essentials  of  primitive  civilization,  —  shelter,  warmth, 
and  food.  An  hour  ago  a  rainstorm  would  have 
been  a  minor  catastrophe.  Now  you  do  not  care. 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  you  have  made  for  yourself 
an  abiding-place,  so  that  the  signs  of  the  sky  are 
less  important  to  you  than  to  the  city  dweller  who 
wonders  if  he  should  take  an  umbrella.    From  your 


THE  FOREST 

doorstep  you  can  look  placidly  out  on  the  great  un- 
known. The  noises  of  the  forest  draw  close  about 
you  their  circle  of  mystery,  but  the  circle  cannot 
break  upon  you,  for  here  you  have  conjured  the 
homely  sounds  of  kettle  and  crackling  flame  to  keep 
ward.  Thronging  down  through  the  twilight  steal 
the  jealous  woodland  shadows,  awful  in  the  sublimity 
of  the  Silent  Places,  but  at  the  sentry  outposts  of 
your  fire-lit  trees  they  pause  like  wild  animals,  hesi- 
tating to  advance.  The  wilderness,  untamed,  dread- 
ful at  night,  is  all  about ;  but  this  one  little  spot  you 
have  reclaimed.  Here  is  something  before  unknown 
to  the  eerie  spirits  of  the  woods.  As  you  sleepily 
knock  the  ashes  from  the  pipe,  you  look  about  on 
the  familiar  scene  with  accustomed  satisfaction.  You 
arc  at  home. 


ON   LYING  AWAKE  AT  NIGHT 


V  XX 

ON  LYING  AWAKE  AT  NIGHT 

**  Who  hath  lain  alone  to  hear  the  wild  goose  cry  ?  *' 

ABOUT  once  in  so  often  you  are  due  to  lie 
awake  at  night.  Why  this  is  so  I  have  never 
been  able  to  discover.  It  apparently  comes  from  no 
predisposing  uneasiness  of  indigestion,  no  rashness 
in  the  matter  of  too  much  tea  or  tobacco,  no  excita- 
tion of  unusual  incident  or  stimulating  conversation. 
In  fact,  you  turn  in  with  the  expectation  of  rather 
a  good  night's  rest.  Almost  at  once  the  little  noises 
of  the  forest  grow  larger,  blend  in  the  hollow  big- 
ness of  the  first  drowse;  your  thoughts  drift  idly 
back  and  forth  between  reality  and  dream ;  when  — 
snap!  —  you  are  broad  awake  ! 

Perhaps  the  reservoir  of  your  vital  forces  is  full 
to  the  overflow  of  a  little  waste ;  or  perhaps,  more 
subtly,  the  great  Mother  insists  thus  that  you  enter 
the  temple  of  her  larger  mysteries. 

For,  unlike  mere  insomnia,  lying  awake  at  night 
in  the  woods  is  pleasant.  The  eager,  nervous  strain, 
ing  for  sleep  gives  way  to  a  delicious  indifference. 
You  do  not  care.    Your  mind  is  cradled  in  an  exqui 

53 


THE  FOREST 

site  poppy-suspension  of  judgment  and  of  thought. 
Impressions  slip  vaguely  into  your  consciousness  and 
as  vaguely  out  again.  Sometimes  they  stand  stark 
and  naked  for  your  inspection ;  sometimes  they  lose 
themselves  in  the  mist  of  half-sleep.  Always  they 
lay  soft  velvet  fingers  on  the  drowsy  imagination,  so 
that  in  their  caressing  you  feel  the  vaster  spaces  from 
which  they  have  come.  Peaceful  -  brooding  your 
faculties  receive.  Hearing,  sight,  smell  —  all  are 
preternatu rally  keen  to  whatever  of  sound  and  sight 
and  woods  perfume  is  abroad  through  the  night; 
and  yet  at  the  same  time  active  appreciation  dozes, 
so  these  things  lie  on  it  sweet  and  cloying  like  fallen 
rose-leaves. 

In  such  circumstance  you  will  hear  what  the  voy- 
ageurs  call  the  voices  of  the  rapids.  Many  people 
never  hear  them  at  all.  They  speak  very  soft  and 
low  and  distinct  beneath  the  steady  roar  and  dash- 
ing, beneath  even  the  lesser  tinklings  and  gurglings 
whose  quality  superimposes  them  over  the  louder 
sounds.  They  are  like  the  tear-forms  swimming 
across  the  field  of  vision,  which  disappear  so  quickly 
when  you  concentrate  your  sight  to  look  at  them, 
and  which  reappear  so  magically  when  again  your 
gaze  turns  vacant.  In  the  stillness  of  your  hazy 
half-consciousness  they  speak ;  when  you  bend  your 
attention  to  listen,  they  are  gone,  and  only  the  tumults 
and  the  tinklings  remain. 

But  in  the  moments  of  their  audibility  they  are 

54 


ON  LYING  AWAKE  AT  NIGHT 

very  distinct.  Just  as  often  an  odor  will  wake  all 
a  vanished  memory,  so  these  voices,  by  the  force  of  a 
large  impressionism,  suggest  whole  scenes.  Far  off 
are  the  cling-clang-cling  of  chimes  and  the  swell-and- 
fall  murmur  of  a  multitude  en  fete^  so  that  subtly 
you  feel  the  gray  old  town,  with  its  walls,  the  crowded 
market-place,  the  decent  peasant  crowd,  the  booths, 
the  mellow  church  building  with  its  bells,  the  warm, 
dust-moted  sun.  Or,  in  the  pauses  between  the 
swish-dash-dashings  of  the  waters,  sound  faint  and 
clear  voices  singing  intermittently,  calls,  distant  notes 
of  laughter,  as  though  many  canoes  were  working 
against  the  current  —  only  the  flotilla  never  gets  any 
nearer,  nor  the  voices  louder.  The  voyageurs  call 
these  mist  people  the  Huntsmen;  and  look  fright- 
ened. To  each  is  his  vision,  according  to  his  expe- 
rience. The  nations  of  the  earth  whisper  to  their 
exiled  sons  through  the  voices  of  the  rapids.  Curi- 
ously enough,  by  all  reports,  they  suggest  always 
peaceful  scenes  —  a  harvest-field,  a  street  fair,  a  Sun- 
day morning  in  a  cathedral  town,  careless  travelers 
—  never  the  turmoils  and  struggles.  Perhaps  this  is 
the  great  Mother's  compensation  in  a  harsh  mode  of 
life. 

Nothing  is  more  fantastically  unreal  to  tell  about, 
nothing  more  concretely  real  to  experience,  than  this 
undernote  of  the  quick  water.  And  when  you  do 
lie  awake  at  night,  it  is  always  making  its  unobtru- 
sive appeal.     Gradually  its  hypnotic   spell  works. 

55 


THE  FOREST 

The  distant  chimes  ring  louder  and  nearer  as  you 
cross  the  borderland  of  sleep.  And  then  outside  the 
tent  some  little  woods  noise  snaps  the  thread.  An 
owl  hoots,  a  whippoorwill  cries,  a  twig  cracks  be- 
neath the  cautious  prowl  of  some  night  creature  — 
at  once  the  yellow  sunlit  French  meadows  puff  away 
—  you  are  staring  at  the  blurred  image  of  the  moon 
spraying  through  the  texture  of  your  tent. 

The  voices  of  the  rapids  have  dropped  into  the 
background,  as  have  the  dashing  noises  of  the  stream. 
Through  the  forest  is  a  great  silence,  but  no  stillness 
at  all.  The  whippoorwill  swings  down  and  up  the 
short  curve  of  his  regular  song;  over  and  over  an 
owl  says  his  rapid  whoo^  whoo^  whoo.  These,  with 
the  ceaseless  dash  of  the  rapids,  are  the  web  on  which 
the  night  traces  her  more  delicate  embroideries  of  the 
unexpected.  Distant  crashes,  single  and  impressive ; 
stealthy  footsteps  near  at  hand ;  the  subdued  scratch- 
ing of  claws ;  a  faint  sniff  I  sniff  I  sniff  I  of  inquiry ; 
the  sudden  clear  tin-horn  ko-ko-ko-bh  of  the  little 
owl;  the  mournful,  long-drawn-outcry  of  the  loon, 
instinct  with  the  spirit  of  loneliness;  the  ethereal 
call-note  of  the  birds  of  passage  high  in  the  air ;  a 
patter^  -patter^  fatter^  among  the  dead  leaves,  imme- 
diately stilled ;  and  then  at  the  last,  from  the  thicket 
close  at  hand,  the  beautiful  silver  purity  of  the  white- 
throated  sparrow  —  the  nightingale  of  the  North  — 
trembling  with  the  ecstasy  of  beauty,  as  though  a 
shimmering  moonbeam  had  turned  to  sound;  and 

56 


At  such  a  time  you  will  meet  with  adventures 


ON  LYING  AWAKE  AT  NIGHT 

all  the  while  the  blurred  figure  of  the  moon  mount- 
ing to  the  ridge-line  of  your  tent  —  these  things 
combine  subtly,  until  at  last  the  great  Silence  of 
which  they  are  a  part  overarches  the  night  and 
draws  you  forth  to  contemplation. 

No  beverage  is  more  grateful  than  the  cup  of 
spring  water  you  drink  at  such  a  time ;  no  moment 
more  refreshing  than  that  in  which  you  look  about 
you  at  the  darkened  forest.  You  have  cast  from  you 
with  the  warm  blanket  the  drowsiness  of  dreams.  A 
coolness,  physical  and  spiritual,  bathes  you  from  head 
to  foot.  All  your  senses  are  keyed  to  the  last  vibra- 
tions. You  hear  the  littler  night  prowlers;  you 
glimpse  the  greater.  A  faint,  searching  woods  per- 
fume of  dampness  greets  your  nostrils.  And  some- 
how, mysteriously,  in  a  manner  not  to  be  understood, 
the  forces  of  the  world  seem  in  suspense,  as  though 
a  touch  might  crystallize  infinite  possibilities  into 
infinite  power  and  motion.  But  the  touch  lacks. 
The  forces  hover  on  the  edge  of  action,  unheeding 
the  little  noises.  In  all  humbleness  and  awe,  you 
are  a  dweller  of  the  Silent  Places. 

At  such  a  time  you  will  meet  with  adventures. 
One  night  we  put  fourteen  inquisitive  porcupines 
out  of  camp.  Near  McGregor's  Bay  I  discovered  in 
the  large  grass  park  of  my  camp-site  nine  deer, 
cropping  the  herbage  like  so  many  beautiful  ghosts. 
A  friend  tells  me  of  a  fawn  that  every  night  used  to 
sleep  outside  his  tent  and  within  a  foot  of  his  head, 

57 


THE  FOREST 

probably  by  way  of  protection  against  wolves.  Its 
mother  had  in  all  likelihood  been  killed.  The  in- 
stant my  friend  moved  toward  the  tent  opening  the 
little  creature  would  disappear,  and  it  was  always 
gone  by  earliest  daylight.  Nocturnal  bears  in  search 
of  pork  are  not  uncommon.  But  even  though  your 
interest  meets  nothing  but  the  bats  and  the  woods 
shadows  and  the  stars,  that  few  moments  of  the 
sleeping  world  forces  is  a  psychical  experience  to  be 
gained  in  no  other  way.  You  cannot  know  the  night 
by  sitting  up;  she  will  sit  up  with  you.  Only  by 
coming  into  her  presence  from  the  borders  of  sleep 
can  you  meet  her  face  to  face  in  her  intimate  mood. 

The  night  wind  from  the  river,  or  from  the  open 
spaces  of  the  wilds,  chills  you  after  a  time.  You 
begin  to  think  of  your  blankets.  In  a  few  moments 
you  roll  yourself  in  their  soft  wool.  Instantly  it  is 
morning. 

And,  strange  to  say,  you  have  not  to  pay  by  going 
through  the  day  unrefreshed.  You  may  feel  like 
turning  in  at  eight  instead  of  nine,  and  you  may  fall 
asleep  with  unusual  promptitude,  but  your  journey 
will  begin  clear-headedly,  proceed  springily,  and  end 
with  much  in  reserve.  No  languor,  no  dull  head- 
ache, no  exhaustion,  follows  your  experience.  For 
this  once  your  two  hours  of  sleep  have  been  as  effect- 
ive as  nine. 


5S 


\. 


THE    LUNGE 


VI 

THE  LUNGE 

«*  Do  you  know  the  chosen  water  where  the  ouananiche  is  waiting  ?  " 

DICK  and  I  traveled  in  a  fifteen-foot  wooden 
canoe,  with  grub,  duffel,  tent,  and  Deuce,  the 
black-and-white  setter  dog.  As  a  consequence  we 
were  pretty  well  down  toward  the  water  line,  for  we 
had  not  realized  that  a  wooden  canoe  would  carry  so 
little  weight  for  its  length  in  comparison  with  a  birch- 
bark.  A  good  heavy  sea  we  could  ride  —  with  pro- 
per management  and  a  little  bailing;  but  sloppy 
waves  kept  us  busy. 

Deuce  did  not  like  it  at  all.  He  was  a  dog  old  in 
the  wisdom  of  experience.  It  had  taken  him  just 
twenty  minutes  to  learn  all  about  canoes.  After  a 
single  tentative  trial  he  jumped  lightly  to  the  very 
centre  of  his  place,  with  the  lithe  caution  of  a  cat. 
Then  if  the  water  happened  to  be  smooth,  he  would 
sit  gravely  on  his  haunches,  or  would  rest  his  chin  on 
the  gunwale  to  contemplate  the  passing  landscape. 
But  in  rough  weather  he  crouched  directly  over  the 
keel,  his  nose  between  his  paws,  and  tried  not  to 
dodge  when  the  cold  water  dashed  in  on  him.    Deuce 

6i 


THE  FOREST 

was  a  true  woodsman  in  that  respect.  Discomfort  he 
always  bore  with  equanimity,  and  he  must  often  have 
been  very  cold  and  very  cramped. 

For  just  over  a  week  we  had  been  travelin/^  in 
open  water,  and  the  elements  had  not  been  kind  to 
us  at  all.  We  had  crept  up  under  rock-cliff  points ; 
had  weathered  the  rips  of  white  water  to  shelter  on 
the  other  side;  had  struggled  across  open  spaces 
where  each  wave  was  singly  a  problem  to  fail  in 
whose  solution  meant  instant  swamping ;  had  bailed, 
and  schemed,  and  figured,  and  carried,  and  sworn, 
and  tried  again,  and  succeeded  with  about  two  cup- 
fuls  to  spare,  until  we  as  well  as  Deuce  had  grown  a 
little  tired  of  it.   For  the  lust  of  travel  was  on  us. 

The  lust  of  travel  is  a  very  real  disease.  It  usually 
takes  you  when  you  have  made  up  your  mind  that 
there  is  no  hurry.  Its  predisposing  cause  is  a  chart 
or  map,  and  its  main  symptom  is  the  feverish  delight 
with  which  you  check  off  the  landmarks  of  your 
journey.  A  fair  wind  of  some  force  is  absolutely 
fatal.  With  that  at  your  back  you  cannot  stop. 
Good  fishing,  fine  scenery,  interesting  bays,  reputed 
game,  even  camps  where  fi-iends  might  be  visited  — 
all  pass  swiftly  astern.  Hardly  do  you  pause  for 
lunch  at  noon.  The  mad  joy  of  putting  country  be- 
hind you  eats  all  other  interests.  You  recover  only 
when  you  have  come  to  your  journey's  end  a  week 
too  early,  and  must  then  search  out  new  voyages  to 
fill  in  the  time. 

62 


THE  LUNGE 

All  this  morning  we  had  been  bucking  a  strong 
north  wind.  Fortunately,  the  shelter  of  a  string  of 
islands  had  given  us  smooth  water  enough,  but  the 
heavy  gusts  sometimes  stopped  us  as  effectively  as 
though  we  had  butted  solid  land.  Now  about  noon 
we  came  to  the  last  island,  and  looked  out  on  a  five- 
mile  stretch  of  tumbling  seas.  We  landed  the  canoe 
and  mounted  a  high  rock. 

"  Can't  make  it  like  this,"  said  I.  "  1 11  take  the 
outfit  over  and  land  it,  and  come  back  for  you  and 
the  dog.   Let 's  see  that  chart." 

We  hid  behind  the  rock  and  spread  out  the  map. 

"  Four  miles,"  measured  Dick.  "  It 's  going  to  be 
a  terror." 

We  looked  at  each  other  vaguely,  suddenly  tired. 

"We  can't  camp  here — at  this  time  of  day," 
objected  Dick,  to  our  unspoken  thoughts. 

And  then  the  map  gave  him  an  inspiration. 
"  Here 's  a  little  river,"  ruminated  Dick,  "  that  goes 
to  a  little  lake,  and  then  there 's  another  little  river 
that  flows  from  the  lake,  and  comes  out  about  ten 
miles  above  here." 

"  It 's  a  good  thirty  miles,"  I  objected. 

"What  of  it  ^  "  asked  Dick,  calmly. 

So  the  fever-lust  of  travel  broke.  We  turned  to 
the  right  behind  the  last  island,  searched  out  the  reed- 
grown  opening  to  the  stream,  and  paddled  serenely 
and  philosophically  against  the  current.  Deuce  sat 
up  and  yawned  with  a  mighty  satisfaction. 

63 


THE  FOREST 

We  had  been  bending  our  heads  to  the  demon  of 
wind ;  our  ears  had  been  filled  with  his  shoutings, 
our  eyes  blinded  with  tears,  our  breath  caught  away 
from  us,  our  muscles  strung  to  the  fiercest  endeavor. 
Suddenly  we  found  ourselves  between  the  ranks  of 
tall  forest  trees,  bathed  in  a  warm  sunlight,  gliding 
like  a  feather  from  one  grassy  bend  to  another  of  the 
laziest  little  stream  that  ever  hesitated  as  to  which 
way  the  grasses  of  its  bed  should  float.  As  for  the 
wind,  it  was  lost  somewhere  away  up  high,  where  we 
could  hear  it  muttering  to  itself  about  something. 

The  woods  leaned  over  the  fringe  of  bushes  cool 
and  green  and  silent.  Occasionally  through  tiny 
openings  we  caught  instant  impressions  of  straight 
column-trunks  and  transparent  shadows.  Miniature 
grass  marshes  jutted  out  from  the  bends  of  the  little 
river.  We  idled  along  as  with  a  homely  rustic  com- 
panion through  the  aloofness  of  patrician  multitudes. 

Every  bend  offered  us  charming  surprises.  Some- 
times a  muskrat  swam  hastily  in  a  pointed  furrow  of 
ripple ;  vanishing  wings,  barely  sensed  in  the  flash, 
lefi:  us  staring;  stealthy  withdrawals  of  creatures, 
whose  presence  we  realized  only  in  the  fact  of  those 
withdrawals,  snared  our  eager  interest;  porcupines 
rattled  and  rustled  importantly  and  regally  from  the 
water's  edge  to  the  woods ;  herons,  ravens,  an  oc- 
casional duck,  croaked  away  at  our  approach  ;  thrice 
we  surprised  eagles,  once  a  tassel-eared  Canada  lynx. 
Or,  if  all  else  lacked,  we  still  experienced  the  little 

64 


THE   LUNGE 

thrill  of  pleased  novelty  over  the  disclosure  of  a 
group  of  silvery  birches  on  a  knoll;  a  magnificent 
white  pine  towering  over  the  beech  and  maple  forest; 
the  unexpected  aisle  of  a  long,  straight  stretch  of  the 
little  river. 

Deuce  approved  thoroughly.  He  stretched  him- 
self and  yawned  and  shook  off  the  water,  and  glanced 
at  me  open-mouthed  with  doggy  good-nature,  and 
set  himself  to  acquiring  a  conscientious  olfactory 
knowledge  of  both  banks  of  the  river.  I  do  not 
doubt  he  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  it  than  we  did. 
Porcupines  aroused  his  especial  enthusiasm.  Inci- 
dentally, two  days  later  he  returned  to  camp  after  an 
expedition  of  his  own,  bristling  as  to  the  face  with 
that  animal's  barbed  weapons.  Thenceforward  his 
interest  waned. 

We  ascended  the  charming  little  river  two  or  three 
miles.  At  a  sharp  bend  to  the  east  a  huge  sheet  of 
rock  sloped  from  a  round  grass  knoll  sparsely  planted 
with  birches  directly  down  into  a  pool.  Two  or  three 
tree-trunks  jammed  directly  opposite  had  formed  a 
sort  of  half  dam  under  which  the  water  lay  dark.  A 
tiny  grass  meadow  forty  feet  in  diameter  narrowed 
the  stream  to  half  its  width. 

We  landed.  Dick  seated  himself  on  the  shelving 
rock.  I  put  my  fish-rod  together.  Deuce  disap- 
peared. 

Deuce  always  disappeared  whenever  we  landed. 
With  nose  down,  hind-quarters  well  tucked  under 

6S 


THE  FOREST 

him,  ears  flying,  he  quartered  the  forest  at  high  speed, 
investigating  every  nook  and  cranny  of  it  for  the 
radius  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  When  he  had  quite 
satisfied  himself  that  we  were  safe  for  the  moment,  he 
would  return  to  the  fire,  where  he  would  lie,  six  inches 
of  pink  tongue  vibrating  with  breathlessness,  beauti- 
ful in  the  consciousness  of  virtue.  Dick  generally  sat 
on  a  rock  and  thought.     I  generally  fished. 

After  a  time  Deuce  returned.  I  gave  up  flies, 
spoons,  phantom  minnows,  artificial  frogs,  and  cray- 
fish. As  Dick  continued  to  sit  on  the  rock  and  think, 
we  both  joined  him.  The  sun  was  very  warm  and 
grateful,  and  I  am  sure  we  both  acquired  an  added 
respect  for  Dick's  judgment. 

Just  when  it  happened  neither  of  us  was  afterwards 
able  to  decide.  Perhaps  Deuce  knew.  But  sud- 
denly, as  often  a  figure  appears  in  a  cinematograph, 
the  diminutive  meadow  thirty  feet  away  contained 
two  deer.  They  stood  knee  deep  in  the  grass,  wag- 
ging their  little  tails  in  impatience  of  the  flies. 

"  Look  a'  there  I  "  stammered  Dick  aloud. 

Deuce  sat  up  on  his  haunches. 

I  started  for  my  camera. 

The  deer  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  slightest  degree 
alarmed.  They  pointed  four  big  ears  in  our  direc- 
tion, ate  a  few  leisurely  mouthfuls  of  grass,  sauntered 
to  the  stream  for  a  drink  of  water,  wagged  their  little 
tails  some  more,  and  quietly  faded  into  the  cool 
shadows  of  the  forest. 

66 


THE   LUNGE 

An  hour  later  we  ran  out  into  reeds,  and  so  to  the 
lake.  It  was  a  pretty  lake,  forest-girt.  Across  the 
distance  we  made  out  a  moving  object  which  shortly 
resolved  itself  into  a  birch  canoe.  The  canoe  proved 
to  contain  an  Indian,  an  Indian  boy  of  about  ten 
years,  a  black  dog,  and  a  bundle.  When  within  a 
few  rods  of  each  other  we  ceased  paddling  and  drifted 
by  with  the  momentum.  The  Indian  was  a  fine- 
looking  man  of  about  forty,  his  hair  bound  with  a 
red  fillet,  his  feet  incased  in  silk-worked  moccasins, 
but  otherwise  dressed  in  white  men's  garments.  He 
smoked  a  short  pipe,  and  contemplated  us  gravely. 

"  Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  we  called  in  the  usual  double- 
barreled  North  Country  salutation. 

"  Bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  he  replied. 

"  Kee-gons  ?  "  we  inquired  as  to  the  fishing  in  the 
lake. 

"  Ah-hah,"  he  assented. 

We  drifted  by  each  other  without  further  speech. 
When  the  decent  distance  of  etiquette  separated  us, 
we  resumed  our  paddles. 

I  produced  a  young  cable  terminated  by  a  tremen- 
dous spoon  and  a  solid  brass  snell  as  thick  as  a  tele- 
graph wire.  We  had  laid  in  this  formidable  imple- 
ment in  hopes  of  a  big  muscallunge.  It  had  been 
trailed  for  days  at  a  time.  We  had  become  used  to 
its  vibration,  which  actually  seemed  to  communicate 
itself  to  every  fiber  of  the  light  canoe.  Every  once 
in  a  while  we  would  stop  with  a  jerk  that  would 

67 


THE  FOREST 

nearly  snap  our  heads  off.  Then  we  would  know 
we  had  hooked  the  American  continent.  We  had 
become  used  to  that  also.  It  generally  happened 
when  we  attempted  a  little  burst  of  speed.  So  when 
the  canoe  brought  up  so  violently  that  all  our  tin- 
ware rolled  on  Deuce,  Dick  was  merely  disgusted. 

"  There  she  goes  again,"  he  grumbled.  "  You  've 
hooked  Canada." 

Canada  held  quiescent  for  about  three  seconds. 
Then  it  started  due  south. 

"  Suffering  serpents !  "  shrieked  Dick. 

"  Paddle,  you  sulphurated  idiot ! "  yelled  I. 

It  was  most  interesting.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to 
hang  on  and  try  to  stay  in  the  boat.  Dick  paddled 
and  fumed  and  splashed  water  and  got  more  excited. 
Canada  dragged  us  bodily  backward. 

Then  Canada  changed  his  mind  and  started  in  our 
direction.  I  was  plenty  busy  taking  in  slack,  so  I 
did  not  notice  Dick.  Dick  was  absolutely  demented. 
His  mind  automatically  reacted  in  the  direction  of 
paddling.  He  paddled,  blindly,  frantically.  Canada 
came  surging  in,  his  mouth  open,  his  wicked  eyes 
flaming,  a  tremendous  indistinct  body  lashing  foam. 
Dick  glanced  once  over  his  shoulder,  and  let  out  a 
frantic  howl. 

"  You  Ve  got  the  sea  serpent ! "  he  shrieked. 

I  turned  to  fumble  for  the  pistol.  We  were 
headed  directly  for  a  log  stranded  on  shore,  and  about 
ten  feet  from  it. 

68 


THE  LUNGE 

"  Dick  ! "  I  yelled  in  warning. 

He  thrust  his  paddle  out  forward  just  in  time. 
The  stout  maple  bent  and  cracked.  The  canoe  hit 
with  a  bump  that  threw  us  forward.  I  returned  to 
the  young  cable.   It  came  in  limp  and  slack. 

We  looked  at  each  other  sadly. 

"  No  use,"  sighed  Dick  at  last.  "  They  've  never 
invented  the  words,  and  we  'd  upset  if  we  kicked 
the  dog." 

I  had  the  end  of  the  line  in  my  hands. 

"  Look  here ! "  I  cried.  That  thick  brass  wire  had 
been  as  cleanly  bitten  through  as  though  it  had  been 
cut  with  clippers.  "  He  must  have  caught  sight  of 
you,"  said  L 

Dick  lifted  up  his  voice  in  lamentation.  "  You 
had  four  feet  of  him  out  of  water,"  he  wailed,  "  and 
there  was  a  lot  more." 

"  If  you  had  kept  cool,"  said  I,  severely,  "we 
should  n't  have  lost  him.  You  don't  want  to  get 
rattled  in  an  emergency.   There  's  no  sense  in  it." 

"  What  were  you  going  to  do  with  that  ?  "  asked 
Dick,  pointing  to  where  I  had  laid  the  pistol. 

"  I  was  going  to  shoot  him  in  the  head,"  I  replied, 
with  dignity.    "  It 's  the  best  way  to  land  them." 

Dick  laughed  disagreeably.  I  looked  down.  At 
my  side  lay  our  largest  iron  spoon. 

We  skirted  the  left  hand  side  of  the  lake  in  silence. 
Far  out  from  shore  the  water  was  ruffled  where  the 
wind  swept  down,  but  with  us  it  was  as  still  and  calm 

69 


THE  FOREST 

as  the  forest  trees  that  looked  over  into  it.  After  a 
time  we  turned  short  to  the  left  through  a  very  nar- 
row passage  between  two  marshy  shores,  and  so,  after 
a  sharp  bend  of  but  a  few  hundred  feet,  came  into 
the  other  river. 

This  was  a  wide  stream,  smoothly  hurrying,  with- 
out rapids  or  tumult.  The  forest  had  drawn  to  either 
side  to  let  us  pass.  Here  were  the  wilder  reaches 
after  the  intimacies  of  the  little  river.  Across  stretches 
of  marsh  we  could  see  an  occasional  great  blue  heron 
standing  mid-leg  deep.  Long  strings  of  ducks  strug- 
gled quacking  from  invisible  pools.  The  faint  marsh 
odor  saluted  our  nostrils  from  the  point  where  the 
lily-pads  flashed  broadly,  ruffling  in  the  wind.  We 
dropped  out  the  smaller  spoon  and  masterfully  landed 
a  five-pound  pickerel.  Even  Deuce  brightened.  He 
cared  nothing  for  raw  fish,  but  he  knew  their  pos- 
sibilities. Towards  evening  we  entered  the  hilly 
country,  and  so  at  the  last  turned  to  the  left  into  a 
sand  cove  where  grew  maples  and  birches  in  beauti- 
ful park  order  under  a  hill.  There  we  pitched  camp, 
and,  as  the  flies  lacked,  built  a  friendship-fire  about 
which  to  foregather  when  the  day  was  done. 

Dick  still  vocally  regretted  the  muscallunge  as  the 
largest  fish  since  Jonah.  So  I  told  him  of  my  big 
bear. 

One  day,  late  in  the  summer,  I  was  engaged  in 
packing  some  supplies  along  an  old  fur  trail  north  of 
Lake  Superior.    I  had  accomplished  one  back-load, 

10 


THE  'LUNGE 

and  with  empty  straps  was  returning  to  the  cache  for 
another.  The  trail  at  one  point  emerged  into  and 
crossed  an  open  park  some  hundreds  of  feet  in  dia- 
meter, in  which  the  grass  grew  to  the  height  of  the 
knee.  When  I  was  about  halfway  across,  a  black 
bear  arose  to  his  hind  legs  not  ten  feet  from  me  and 
remarked  Woof!  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice.  Now,  if 
a  man  were  to  say  woof!  to  you  unexpectedly,  even 
in  the  formality  of  an  Italian  garden  or  the  accus- 
tomedness  of  a  city  street,  you  would  be  somewhat 
startled.  So  I  went  to  camp.  There  I  told  them 
about  the  bear.  I  tried  to  be  conservative  in  my 
description,  because  I  did  not  wish  to  be  accused 
of  exaggeration.  My  impression  of  the  animal  was 
that  he  and  a  spruce-tree  that  grew  near  enough  for 
ready  comparison  were  approximately  of  the  same 
stature.  We  returned  to  the  grass  park.  After  some 
difficulty  we  found  a  clear  footprint.  It  was  a  little 
larger  than  that  made  by  a  good-sized  coon. 

"So,  you  see,"  I  admonished,  didactically,  "that 
'lunge  probably  was  not  quite  so  large  as  you 
thought." 

"  It  may  have  been  a  Chinese  bear,"  said  Dick, 
dreamily  —  "a  Chinese  lady  bear,  of  high  degree." 

I  gave  him  up. 


ON   OPEN-WATER  CANOE  TRAVELING 


VII 
ON   OPEN-WATER  CANOE  TRAVELING 

<*  It  is  there  that  I  am  going,  with  an  extra  hand  to  bail  her  — 
Just  one  single  long-shore  loafer  that  I  know. 
He  can  take  his  chance  of  drowning  while  I  sail  and  sail  and  sail  her. 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go.*' 

THE  following  morning  the  wind  had  died,  but 
had  been  succeeded  by  a  heavy  pall  of  fog. 
After  we  had  felt  our  way  beyond  the  mouth  of  the 
river  we  were  forced  to  paddle  northwest  by  north, 
in  blind  reliance  on  our  compass.  Sounds  there  were 
none.  Involuntarily  we  lowered  our  voices.  The 
inadvertent  click  of  a  paddle  against  the  gunwale 
seemed  to  desecrate  a  foreordained  stillness. 

Occasionally  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left:  we  made 
out  faint  shadow-pictures  of  wooded  islands  that  en- 
dured but  a  moment  and  then  deliberately  faded  into 
whiteness.  They  formed  on  the  view  exactly  as  an 
image  develops  on  a  photographic  plate.  Some- 
times a  faint  lisp-Usp-lisp  of  tiny  waves  against  a  shore 
nearer  than  it  seemed  cautioned  us  anew  not  to  break 
the  silence.  Otherwise  we  were  alone,  intruders, 
suffered  in  the  presence  of  a  brooding  nature  only  as 
long  as  we  refrained  from  disturbances. 

75 


THE  FOREST 

Then  at  noon  the  vapors  began  to  eddy,  to  open 
momentarily  in  revelation  of  vivid  green  glimpses, 
to  stream  down  the  rising  wind.  Pale  sunlight 
dashed  fitfully  across  us  like  a  shower.  Somewhere 
in  the  invisibility  a  duck  quacked.  Deuce  awoke, 
looked  about  him,  and  yow-yow-yowed  in  doggish  re- 
lief Animals  understand  thoroughly  these  subtleties 
of  nature. 

In  half  an  hour  the  sun  was  strong,  the  air  clear 
and  sparkling,  and  a  freshening  wind  was  certifying 
our  prognostications  of  a  lively  afternoon. 

A  light  canoe  will  stand  almost  anything  in  the 
way  of  a  sea,  although  you  may  find  it  impossible 
sometimes  to  force  it  in  the  direction  you  wish  to  go. 
A  loaded  canoe  will  weather  a  great  deal  more  than 
you  might  think.  However,  only  experience  in 
balance  and  in  the  nature  of  waves  will  bring  you 
safely  across  a  stretch  of  whitecaps. 

With  the  sea  dead  ahead  you  must  not  go  too  fast ; 
otherwise  you  will  dip  water  over  the  bow.  You 
must  trim  the  craft  absolutely  on  an  even  keel. 
Otherwise  the  comb  of  the  wave,  too  light  to  lift  you, 
will  slop  in  over  one  gunwale  or  the  other.  You 
must  be  perpetually  watching  your  chance  to  gain  a 
foot  or  so  between  the  heavier  seas. 

With  the  sea  over  one  bow  you  must  paddle  on 
the  leeward  side.  When  the  canoe  mounts  a  wave, 
you  must  allow  the  crest  to  throw  the  bow  off  a  trifle, 
but  the  moment  it  starts  down  the  other  slope  you 

76 


■'  The  wind  .  .  .  had  been  succeeded  by  a  heavy  pall  of  fog  " 


ON   OPEN-WATER  CANOE   TRAVELING 

must  twist  your  paddle  sharply  to  regain  the  direction 
of  your  course.  The  careening  tendency  of  this  twist 
you  must  counteract  by  a  corresponding  twist  of  your 
body  in  the  other  direction.  Then  the  hollow  will 
allow  you  two  or  three  strokes  wherewith  to  assure  a 
little  progress.  The  double  twist  at  the  very  crest  of 
the  wave  must  be  very  delicately  performed,  or  you 
will  ship  water  the  whole  length  of  your  craft. 

With  the  sea  abeam  you  must  simply  paddle 
straight  ahead.  The  adjustment  is  to  be  accomplished 
entirely  by  the  poise  of  the  body.  You  must  pre- 
vent the  capsize  of  your  canoe  when  clinging  to  the 
angle  of  a  wave  by  leaning  to  one  side.  The  crucial 
moment,  of  course,  is  that  during  which  the  peak  of 
the  wave  slips  under  you.  In  case  of  a  breaking 
comber,  thrust  the  flat  of  your  paddle  deep  in  the 
water  to  prevent  an  upset,  and  lean  well  to  leeward, 
thus  presenting  the  side  and  half  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe  to  the  shock  of  water.  Your  recovery  must 
be  instant,  however.  If  you  lean  a  second  too  long, 
over  you  go.  This  sounds  more  difficult  than  it  is. 
After  a  time  you  do  it  instinctively,  as  a  skater 
balances. 

With  the  sea  over  the  quarter  you  have  merely 
to  take  care  that  the  waves  do  not  slew  you  around 
sidewise,  and  that  the  canoe  does  not  dip  water  on 
one  side  or  the  other  under  the  stress  of  your  twists 
with  the  paddle.  Dead  astern  is  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  of  all,  for  the  reason  that  you  must  watch 

77 


THE  FOREST 

both  gunwales  at  once,  and  must  preserve  an  abso- 
lutely even  keel  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  generally 
requires  your  utmost  strength  to  steer. 

In  really  heavy  weather  one  man  only  can  do  any 
work.  The  other  must  be  content  to  remain  pas- 
senger, and  he  must  be  trained  to  absolute  immo- 
bility. No  matter  how  dangerous  a  careen  the  canoe 
may  take,  no  matter  how  much  good  cold  water  may 
pour  in  over  his  legs,  he  must  resist  his  tendency  to 
shift  his  weight.  The  entire  issue  depends  on  the 
delicacy  of  the  steersman's  adjustments,  so  he  must 
be  given  every  chance. 

The  main  difficulty  rests  in  the  fact  that  such 
canoeing  is  a  good  deal  like  air-ship  travel  —  there 
is  not  much  opportunity  to  learn  by  experience.  In 
a  four-hour  run  across  an  open  bay  you  will  encounter 
somewhat  over  a  thousand  waves,  no  two  of  which 
are  exactly  alike,  and  any  one  of  which  can  fill  you 
up  only  too  easily  if  it  is  not  correctly  met.  Your 
experience  is  called  on  to  solve  instantly  and  practi- 
cally a  thousand  problems.  No  breathing-space  in 
which  to  recover  is  permitted  you  between  them. 
At  the  end  of  the  four  hours  you  awaken  to  the  fact 
that  your  eyes  are  strained  from  intense  concentra- 
tion, and  that  you  taste  copper. 

Probably  nothing,  however,  can  more  effectively 
wake  you  up  to  the  last  fiber  of  your  physical,  intel- 
lectual, and  nervous  being.  You  are  filled  with  an 
exhilaration.     Every  muscle,  strung  tight,  answers 

7S 


ON  OPEN-WATER   CANOE   TRAVELING 

immediately  and  accurately  to  the  slightest  hint.  You 
quiver  all  over  with  restrained  energy.  Your  mind 
thrusts  behind  you  the  problem  of  the  last  wave  as 
soon  as  solved,  and  leaps  with  insistent  eagerness  to 
the  next.  You  attain  that  super-ordinary  condition 
when  your  faculties  react  instinctively,  like  a  ma- 
chine. It  is  a  species  of  intoxication.  After  a 
time  you  personify  each  wave ;  you  grapple  with  it 
as  with  a  personal  adversary ;  you  exult  as,  beaten 
and  broken,  it  hisses  away  to  leeward.  "Go  it, 
you  son  of  a  gun ! "  you  shout.  "  Ah,  you  would, 
would  you !  think  you  can,  do  you  *? "  and  in  the 
roar  and  rush  of  wind  and  water  you  crouch  like  a 
boxer  on  the  defense,  parrying  the  blows,  but  ready 
at  the  slightest  opening  to  gain  a  stroke  of  the 
paddle. 

In  such  circumstances  you  have  not  the  leisure  to 
consider  distance.  You  are  too  busily  engaged  in 
slaughtering  waves  to  consider  your  rate  of  progress. 
The  fact  that  slowly  you  are  pulling  up  on  your 
objective  point  does  not  occur  to  you  until  you  are 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  it.  Then,  unless  you 
are  careful,  you  are  undone. 

Probably  the  most  difficult  thing  of  all  to  learn  is 
that  the  waves  to  be  encountered  in  the  last  hundred 
yards  of  an  open  sweep  are  exactly  as  dangerous  as 
those  you  dodged  so  fearfully  four  miles  from  shore. 
You  are  so  nearly  in  that  you  unconsciously  relax 
your  efforts.    Calmly,  almost  contemptuously,  a  big 

79 


THE  FOREST 

roller  rips  along  your  gunwale.  You  are  wrecked 
—  fortunately  within  easy  swimming  distance.  But 
that  does  n't  save  your  duffel.  Remember  this :  be 
just  as  careful  with  the  very  last  wave  as  you  were 
with  the  others.  Get  inside  before  you  draw  that 
deep  breath  of  relief 

Strangely  enough,  in  out-of-door  sports,  where  it 
would  seem  that  convention  would  rest  practically 
at  the  zero  point,  the  bugbear  of  good  form,  although 
mashed  and  disguised,  rises  up  to  confuse  the  directed 
practicality.  The  average  man  is  wedded  to  his 
theory.  He  has  seen  a  thing  done  in  a  certain  way, 
and  he  not  only  always  does  it  that  way  himself,  but 
he  is  positively  unhappy  at  seeing  any  one  else  em- 
ploying a  different  method.  From  the  swing  at 
golf  to  the  manner  of  lighting  a  match  in  the  wind, 
this  truism  applies.  I  remember  once  hearing  a 
long  argument  with  an  Eastern  man  on  the  question 
of  the  English  riding-seat  in  the  Western  country. 

"Your  method  is  all  very  well,"  said  the  West- 
erner, "  for  where  it  came  from.  In  England  they 
ride  to  hunt,  so  they  need  a  light  saddle  and  very 
short  stirrups  set  well  forward.  That  helps  them  in 
jumping.  But  it  is  most  awkward.  Out  here  you 
want  your  stirrups  very  long  and  directly  under  you, 
so  your  legs  hang  loose,  and  you  depend  on  your 
balance  and  the  grip  of  your  thighs  —  not  your 
knees.  It  is  less  tiring,  and  better  sense,  and  infinitely 
more  graceful,  for  it  more  nearly  approximates  the 

80 


ON  OPEN-WATER  CANOE  TRAVELING 

bareback  seat.  Instead  of  depending  on  stirrups, 
you  are  part  of  the  horse.  You  follow  his  every 
movement.  And  as  for  your  rising  trot,  I  'd  like  to 
see  you  accomplish  it  safely  on  our  mountain  trails 
where  the  trot  is  the  only  gait  practicable,  unless  you 
take  forever  to  get  anywhere."  To  all  of  which  the 
Easterner  found  no  rebuttal  except  the,  to  him,  en- 
tirely efficient  plea  that  his  own  method  was  good 
form. 

Now,  of  course,  it  is  very  pleasant  to  do  things 
always  accurately,  according  to  the  rules  of  the  game, 
and  if  you  are  out  merely  for  sport,  perhaps  it  is  as 
well  to  stick  to  them.  But  utility  is  another  matter. 
Personally,  I  do  not  care  at  all  to  kill  trout  unless 
by  the  fly ;  but  when  we  need  meat  and  they  do  not 
need  flies,  I  never  hesitate  to  offer  them  any  kind 
of  a  doodle-bug  they  may  fancy.  I  have  even,  at  a 
pinch,  clubbed  them  to  death  in  a  shallow,  land- 
locked pool.  Times  will  come  in  your  open-water 
canoe  experience  when  you  will  pull  into  your  shel- 
ter half  full  of  water,  when  you  will  be  glad  of  the 
fortuity  of  a  chance  cross-wave  to  help  you  out,  when 
sheer  blind  luck,  or  main  strength  and  awkwardness, 
will  be  the  only  reasons  you  can  honestly  give  for  an 
arrival,  and  a  battered  and  disheveled  arrival  at  that. 
Do  not,  therefore,  repine,  or  bewail  your  awkward- 
ness, or  indulge  in  undue  self-accusations  of  "  tender- 
foot." Method  is  nothing ;  the  arrival  is  the  impor- 
tant thing.    You  are  traveling,  and  if  you  can  make 

Si 


THE  FOREST 

time  by  nearly  swamping  yourself,  or  by  dragging 
your  craft  across  a  point,  or  by  taking  any  other  base 
advantage  of  the  game's  formality,  by  all  means  do 
so.  Deuce  used  to  solve  the  problem  of  comfort  by 
drinking  the  little  pool  of  cold  water  in  which  he 
sometimes  was  forced  to  lie.  In  the  woods,  when  a 
thing  is  to  be  done,  do  not  consider  how  you  have 
done  it,  or  how  you  have  seen  it  done,  or  how  you 
think  it  ought  to  be  done,  but  how  it  can  be  accom- 
plished. Absolute  fluidity  of  expedient,  perfect 
adaptability,  is  worth  a  dozen  volumes  of  theoretical 
knowledge.  "  If  you  can't  talk,"  goes  the  Western 
expression,  "raise  a  yell;  if  you  can't  yell,  make 
signs;  if  you  can't  make  signs,  wave  a  bush." 

And  do  not  be  too  ready  to  take  advice  as  to  what 
you  can  or  cannot  accomplish,  even  from  the  woods 
people.  Of  course  the  woods  Indians  or  the  voy- 
ageurs  know  all  about  canoes,  and  you  would  do 
well  to  listen  to  them.  But  the  mere  fact  that  your 
interlocutor  lives  in  the  forest,  while  you  normally 
inhabit  the  towns,  does  not  necessarily  give  him 
authority.  A  community  used  to  horses  looks  with 
horror  on  the  instability  of  all  water-craft  less  solid 
than  canal-boats.  Canoemen  stand  in  awe  of  the 
bronco.  The  fishermen  of  the  Georgian  Bay,  accus- 
tomed to  venture  out  with  their  open  sailboats  in 
weather  that  forces  the  big  lake  schooners  to  shelter, 
know  absolutely  nothing  about  canoes.  Dick  and  I 
made  an  eight-mile  run  from  the  Fox  Island  to  Killar- 

82 


ON  OPEN-WATER  CANOE   TRAVELING 

ney  in  a  trifling  sea,  to  be  cheered  during  our  stay  at 
the  latter  place  by  doleful  predictions  of  an  early 
drowning.  And  this  from  a  seafaring  community.  It 
knew  all  about  boats ;  it  knew  nothing  about  canoes  ; 
and  yet  the  unthinking  might  have  been  influenced 
by  the  advicL-  of  these  men  simply  because  they 
had  been  broiight  up  on  the  water.  The  point  is  ob- 
vious. Do  not  attempt  a  thing  unless  you  are  sure 
of  yourself;  but  do  not  relinquish  it  merely  because 
some  one  else  is  not  sure  of  you. 

The  best  way  to  learn  is  with  a  bathing-suit.  Keep 
near  shore,  and  try  everything.  Don't  attempt  the 
real  thing  until  your  handling  in  a  heavy  sea  has  be- 
come as  instinctive  as  snap-shooting  or  the  steps  of 
dancing.  Remain  on  the  hither  side  of  caution  when 
you  start  out.  Act  at  first  as  though  every  wavelet 
would  surely  swamp  you.  Extend  the  scope  of 
your  operations  very  gradually,  until  you  know  just 
what  you  can  do.  Never  get  careless.  Never  take 
any  real  chances.   That 's  all. 


«3 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 


VIII 
THE   STRANDED   STRANGERS 

AS  we  progressed,  the  country  grew  more  and 
more  solemnly  aloof.  In  the  Southland  is  a 
certain  appearance  of  mobility,  lent  by  the  deciduous 
trees,  the  warm  sun,  the  intimate  nooks  in  which 
grow  the  commoner  homely  weeds  and  flowers,  the 
abundance  of  bees  and  musical  insects,  the  childhood 
familiarity  of  the  well-known  birds,  even  the  plea- 
santly fickle  aspects  of  the  skies.  But  the  North 
wraps  itself  in  a  mantle  of  awe.  Great  hills  rest  not 
so  much  in  the  stillness  of  sleep  as  in  the  calm  of  a 
mighty  comprehension.  The  pines,  rank  after  rank, 
file  after  file,  are  always  trooping  somewhere,  up  the 
slope,  to  pause  at  the  crest  before  descending  on  the 
other  side  into  the  unknown.  Bodies  of  water  ex- 
actly of  the  size,  shape,  and  general  appearance  we 
are  accustomed  to  see  dotted  with  pleasure  craft  and 
bordered  with  wharves,  summer  cottages,  pavilions, 
and  hotels,  accentuate  by  that  very  fact  a  solitude 
that  harbors  only  a  pair  of  weirdly  laughing  loons. 
Like  the  hills,  these  lakes  are  lying  in  a  deep,  still 
repose,  but  a  repose  that  somehow  suggests  the  com- 

87 


THE  FOREST 

prehcnding  calm  of  those  behind  the  veil.  The  whole 
country  seems  to  rest  in  a  suspense  of  waiting.  A 
shot  breaks  the  stillness  for  an  instant,  but  its  very 
memory  is  shadowy  a  moment  after  the  echoes  die. 
Inevitably  the  traveler  feels  thrust  in  upon  himself 
by  a  neutrality  more  deadly  than  open  hostility  would 
be.  Hostility  at  least  supposes  recognition  of  his 
existence,  a  rousing  of  forces  to  oppose  him.  This 
ignores.  One  can  no  longer  wonder  at  the  taciturnity 
of  the  men  who  dwell  here ;  nor  does  one  fail  to  grasp 
the  eminent  suitability  to  the  country  of  its  Indian 
name  —  the  Silent  Places. 

Even  the  birds,  joyful,  lively,  commonplace  little 
people  that  they  are,  draw  some  of  this  aloofness  to 
themselves.  The  North  is  full  of  the  homelier  singers. 
A  dozen  species  of  warblers  lisp  music-box  phrases, 
two  or  three  sparrows  whistle  a  cheerful  repertoire, 
the  nuthatches  and  chickadees  toot  away  in  blissful 
bourgeoisie.  And  yet,  somehow,  that  very  circum- 
stance thrusts  the  imaginative  voyager  outside  the 
companionship  of  their  friendliness.  In  the  face  of 
the  great  gods  they  move  with  accustomed  famil- 
iarity. Somehow  they  possess  in  their  little  expe- 
rience that  which  explains  the  mystery,  so  that  they 
no  longer  stand  in  its  awe.  Their  every-day  lives  are 
spent  under  the  shadow  of  the  temple  whither  you 
dare  not  bend  your  footsteps.  The  intimacy  of  oc- 
cult things  isolates  also  these  wise  little  birds. 

The  North  speaks,  however,  only  in  the  voices  of 

Z2> 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

three — the  two  thrushes,  and  the  white-throated  spar- 
row.  You  must  hear  these  each  at  his  proper  time. 

The  hermit  thrush  you  will  rarely  see.  But  late 
some  afternoon,  when  the  sun  is  lifting  along  the 
trunks  of  the  hardwood  forest,  if  you  are  very  lucky 
and  very  quiet,  you  will  hear  him  far  in  the  depths 
of  the  blackest  swamps.  Musically  expressed,  his 
song  is  very  much  like  that  of  the  wood  thrush  — 
three  cadenced  liquid  notes,  a  quivering  pause,  then 
three  more  notes  of  another  phrase,  and  so  on.  But 
the  fineness  of  its  quality  makes  of  it  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent performance.  If  you  symbolize  the  hermit 
thrush  by  the  flute,  you  must  call  the  wood  thrush 
a  chime  of  little  tinkling  bells.  One  is  a  rendition ; 
the  other  the  essence  of  liquid  music.  An  effect  of 
gold-embroidered  richness,  of  depth  going  down  to 
the  very  soul  of  things,  a  haunting  suggestion  of 
having  touched  very  near  to  the  source  of  tears,  a 
conviction  that  the  just  interpretation  of  the  song 
would  be  an  equally  just  interpretation  of  black 
woods,  deep  shadows,  cloistered  sunlight,  brooding 
hills  —  these  are  the  subtle  and  elusive  impressions 
you  will  receive  in  the  middle  of  the  ancient  forest. 

The  olive-backed  thrush  you  will  enjoy  after  your 
day's  work  is  quite  finished.  You  will  see  him 
through  the  tobacco  haze,  perched  on  a  limb  against 
the  evening  sky.  He  utters  a  loud,  joyful  chirp ; 
pauses  for  the  attention  he  thus  solicits,  and  then 
deliberately  runs  up  five  mellow  double  notes,  end- 

89 


THE  FOREST 

ing  with  a  metallic  "-ting  chee  chee  chee"  that 
sounds  as  though  it  had  been  struck  on  a  triangle. 
Then  a  silence  of  exactly  nine  seconds  and  repeat. 
As  regularly  as  clock-work  this  performance  goes  on. 
Time  him  as  often  as  you  will,  you  can  never  con- 
vict him  of  a  second's  variation.  And  he  is  so  op- 
timistic and  willing,  and  his  notes  are  so  golden  with 
the  yellow  of  sunshine  ! 

The  white-throated  sparrow  sings  nine  distinct 
variations  of  the  same  song.  He  may  sing  more, 
but  that  is  all  I  have  counted.  He  inhabits  woods, 
berry-vines,  brules,  and  clearings.  Ordinarily  he  is 
cheerful,  and  occasionally  aggravating.  One  man  I 
knew,  he  drove  nearly  crazy.  To  that  man  he  was 
always  saying,  ''And  he  never  heard  the  man  say 

drink  and  the ."    Towards  the  last  my  friend  used 

wildly  to  offer  him  a  thousand  dollars  if  he  would, 
if  he  only  would^  finish  that  sentence.  But  occasion- 
ally, in  just  the  proper  circumstances,  he  forgets  his 
stump  corners,  his  vines,  his  jolly  sunlight,  and  his 
delightful  bugs  to  become  the  intimate  voice  of  the 
wilds.  It  is  night,  very  still,  very  dark.  The  sub- 
dued murmur  of  the  forest  ebbs  and  flows  with  the 
voices  of  the  furtive  folk,  an  undertone  fearful  to 
break  the  night  calm.  Suddenly  across  the  dusk  of 
silence  flashes  a  single  thread  of  silver,  vibrating, 
trembling  with  some  unguessed  ecstasy  of  emotion  : 
"  Ah  I  poor  Canada  Canada  Canada  Canada ! "  it 
mourns  passionately,  and  falls  silent.   That  is  all. 

90 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

You  will  hear  at  various  times  other  birds  pecu- 
liarly of  the  North.  Loons  alternately  calling  and 
uttering  their  maniac  laughter;  purple  finches  or 
some  of  the  pine  sparrows  warbling  high  and  clear ; 
the  winter  wren,  whose  rapturous  ravings  never  fail 
to  strike  the  attention  of  the  dullest  passer;  all  these 
are  exclusively  Northern  voices,  and  each  expresses 
some  phase  or  mood  of  the  Silent  Places.  But  none 
symbolizes  as  do  the  three.  And  when  first  you  hear 
one  of  them  after  an  absence,  you  are  satisfied  that 
things  are  right  in  the  world,  for  the  North  Coun- 
try's spirit  is  as  it  was. 

Now  ensued  a  spell  of  calm  weather,  with  a  film 
of  haze  over  the  sky.  The  water  lay  like  quicksil- 
ver, heavy  and  inert.  Towards  afiiernoon  it  became 
opalescent  The  very  substance  of  the  liquid  itself 
seemed  impregnated  with  dyes  ranging  in  shade 
from  wine  color  to  the  most  delicate  lilac.  Through 
a  smoke  veil  the  sun  hung,  a  ball  of  red,  while  be- 
neath every  island,  every  rock,  every  tree,  every  wild 
fowl  floating  idly  in  a  medium  apparently  too  deli- 
cate for  its  support,  lurked  the  beautiful  crimson 
shadows  of  the  North. 

Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  we  slipped  on. 
Point  after  point,  island  after  island,  presented  itself 
silently  to  our  inspection  and  dropped  quietly  astern. 
The  beat  of  paddles  fitted  monotonously  into  the 
almost  portentous  stillness.  It  seemed  that  we  might 
be  able  to  go  on  thus  forever,  lapped  in  the  dream 

91 


THE  FOREST 

of  some  forgotten  magic  that  had  stricken  breathless 
the  life  of  the  world.  And  then,  suddenly,  three 
weeks  on  our  journey,  we  came  to  a  town. 

It  was  not  the  typical  fur  town  of  the  Far  North, 
but  it  lay  at  the  threshold.  A  single  street,  worn 
smooth  by  the  feet  of  men  and  dogs,  but  innocent  of 
hoofs,  fronted  the  channel.  A  board  walk,  elevated 
against  the  snows,  bordered  a  row  of  whitewashed 
log  and  frame  houses,  each  with  its  garden  of  brilliant 
flowers.  A  dozen  wharves  of  various  sizes,  over 
whose  edges  peeped  the  double  masts  of  Mackinaw 
boats,  spoke  of  a  fishing  community.  Between  the 
roofs  one  caught  glimpses  of  a  low  sparse  woods  and 
some  thousand-foot  hills  beyond.  We  subsequently 
added  the  charm  of  isolation  in  learning  that  the 
nearest  telegraph  line  was  fifteen  miles  distant,  while 
the  railroad  passed  some  fifty  miles  away. 

Dick  immediately  went  wild.  It  was  his  first 
glimpse  of  the  mixed  peoples.  A  dozen  loungers^ 
handsome,  careless,  graceful  with  the  inimitable  ele^ 
gance  of  the  half-breed's  leisure,  chatted,  rolled  cigar- 
ettes, and  surveyed  with  heavy-eyed  indolence  such 
of  the  town  as  could  be  viewed  from  the  shade  in 
which  they  lay.  Three  girls,  in  whose  dark  cheeks 
glowed  a  rich  French  comeliness,  were  comparing 
purchases  near  the  store.  A  group  of  rivermen,  spike- 
booted,  short-trousered,  reckless  of  air,  with  their 
little  round  hats  over  one  ear,  sat  chair-tilted  outside 
the  "  hotel."   Across  the  dividing  fences  of  two  of  the 

92 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

blazoned  gardens  a  pair  of  old  crones  gossiped  under 
their  breaths.  Some  Indians  smoked  silently  at  the 
edge  of  one  of  the  docks.  In  the  distance  of  the 
street's  end  a  French  priest  added  the  quaintness  of 
his  cassock  to  the  exotic  atmosphere  of  the  scene. 
At  once  a  pack  of  the  fierce  sledge-dogs  left  their 
foraging  for  the  offal  of  the  fisheries,  to  bound  chal- 
lenging in  the  direction  of  poor  Deuce.  That  high- 
bred animal  fruitlessly  attempted  to  combine  dignity 
with  a  discretionary  lurking  between  our  legs.  We 
made  demonstrations  with  sticks,  and  sought  out  the 
hotel,  for  it  was  about  time  to  eat. 

We  had  supper  at  a  table  with  three  Forest  Ran- 
gers, two  lumber-jacks,  and  a  cat-like  handsome 
"  breed  "  whose  business  did  not  appear.  Then  we 
lit  up  and  strolled  about  to  see  what  we  could  see. 

On  the  text  ot  a  pair  of  brass  knuckles  hanging 
behind  the  hotel  bar  I  embroidered  many  experiences 
with  the  lumber-jack.  I  told  of  a  Wisconsin  town 
where  an  enforced  wait  of  five  hours  enabled  me  to 
establish  the  proportion  of  fourteen  saloons  out  of  a 
total  of  twenty  frame  buildings.  I  descanted  craftily 
on  the  character  of  the  woodsman  out  of  the  woods 
and  in  the  right  frame  of  mind  for  deviltry.  I  related 
how  Jack  Boyd,  irritated  beyond  endurance  at  the 
annoyances  of  a  stranger,  finally  with  the  flat  of  his 
hand  boxed  the  man's  head  so  mightily  that  he 
whirled  around  twice  and  sat  down.  "Now,"  said 
Jack,  softly,  "  be  more  careful,  my  friend,  or  next 

93 


THE  FOREST 

time  I'll  hit  you."  Or  of  a  little  Irishman  who 
shouted  to  his  friends  about  to  pull  a  big  man  from 
pounding  the  life  quite  out  of  him,  "  Let  him  alone  ! 
let  him  alone  I  I  may  be  on  top  myself  in  a  few 
minutes ! "  And  of  Dave  Walker,  who  fought  to  a 
standstill  with  his  bare  fists  alone  five  men  who  had 
sworn  to  kill  him.  And  again  of  that  doughty  knight 
of  the  peavie,  who,  when  attacked  by  an  axe,  waved 
aside  interference  with  the  truly  dauntless  cry,  "  Leave 
him  be,  boys ;  there 's  an  axe  between  us ! " 

I  tried  to  sketch,  too,  the  drive,  wherein  a  dozen 
times  in  an  hour  these  men  face  death  with  a  smile 
or  a  curse  —  the  raging,  untamed  river,  the  fierce 
rush  of  the  logs,  the  cool  little  human  beings  poising 
with  a  certain  contemptuous  preciosity  on  the  edge 
of  destruction  as  they  herd  their  brutish  multitudes. 

There  was  Jimmy,  the  river  boss,  who  could  not 
swim  a  stroke,  and  who  was  incontinently  swept  over 
a  dam  and  into  the  boiling  back-set  of  the  eddy  be- 
low. Three  times,  gasping,  strangling,  drowning,  he 
was  carried  in  the  wide  swirl  of  the  circle,  sometimes 
under,  sometimes  on  top.  Then  his  knee  touched  a 
sand-bar,  and  he  dragged  himself  painfully  ashore. 
He  coughed  up  a  quantity  of  water,  and  gave  vent 
to  his  feelings  over  a  miraculous  escape.  "  Damn  it 
all !  "  he  wailed,  "  I  lost  my  peavie  !  " 

"  On  the  Paint  River  drive  one  spring,"  said  I,  "  a 
jam  formed  that  extended  up  river  some  three  miles. 
The  men  were  working  at  the  breast  of  it,  some 

94 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

underneath,  some  on  top.  After  a  time  the  jam  ap- 
parently broke,  pulled  downstream  a  hundred  feet  or 
so,  and  plugged  again.  Then  it  was  seen  that  only 
a  small  section  had  moved,  leaving  the  main  body 
still  jammed,  so  that  between  the  two  sections  lay  a 
narrow  stretch  of  open  water.  Into  this  open  water 
one  of  the  men  had  fallen.  Before  he  could  recover, 
the  second  or  tail  section  of  the  jam  started  to  pull. 
Apparently  nothing  could  prevent  him  from  being 
crushed.  A  man  called  Sam  —  I  don't  know  his  last 
name  —  ran  down  the  tail  of  the  first  section,  across 
the  loose  logs  bobbing  in  the  open  water,  seized  the 
victim  of  the  accident  by  the  collar,  desperately  scaled 
the  face  of  the  moving  jam,  and  reached  the  top  just 
as  the  two  sections  ground  together  with  the  brutish 
noise  of  wrecking  timbers.  It  was  a  magnificent 
rescue.  Any  but  these  men  of  iron  would  have  ad- 
journed for  thanks  and  congratulations.  Still  retaining 
his  hold  on  the  other  man's  collar,  Sam  twisted  him 
about  and  delivered  a  vigorous  kick.  '  T!here^  damn 
you  I  '  said  he.  That  was  all.  They  fell  to  work  at 
once  to  keep  the  jam  moving." 

I  instanced,  too,  some  of  the  feats  of  river-work 
these  men  could  perform.  Of  how  Jack  Boyd  has 
been  known  to  float  twenty  miles  without  shifting  his 
feet,  on  a  log  so  small  that  he  carried  it  to  the  water 
on  his  shoulder ;  of  how  a  dozen  rivermen,  one  after 
the  other,  would  often  go  through  the  chute  of  a  dam 
standing  upright  on  single  logs ;  of  O'Donnell,  who 

95 


THE  FOREST 

could  turn  a  somersault  on  a  floating  pine  log;  of 
the  birling  matches,  wherein  two  men  on  a  single  log 
try  to  throw  each  other  into  the  river  by  treading, 
squirrel  fashion,  in  faster  and  faster  rotation;  of 
how  a  riverman  and  spiked  boots  and  a  saw-log  can 
do  more  work  than  an  ordinary  man  with  a  rowboat. 

I  do  not  suppose  Dick  believed  all  this  —  although 
it  was  strictly  and  literally  true  —  but  his  imagination 
was  impressed.  He  gazed  with  respect  on  the  group 
at  the  far  end  of  the  street,  where  fifteen  or  twenty 
lumber-jacks  were  interested  in  some  amusement  con- 
cealed from  us. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they  are  doing  ?  "  mur- 
mured Dick,  awestricken. 

"  Wrestling,  or  boxing,  or  gambling,  or  jumping," 
said  I. 

We  approached.  Gravely,  silently,  intensely  in- 
terested, the  cock-hatted,  spike-shod,  dangerous  men 
were  playing  —  croquet ! 

The  sight  was  too  much  for  our  nerves.  We  went 
away. 

The  permanent  inhabitants  of  the  place  we  dis- 
covered to  be  friendly  to  a  degree.  The  Indian  strain 
was  evident  in  various  dilution  through  all.  Dick's 
enthusiasm  grew  steadily  until  his  artistic  instincts 
became  aggressive,  and  he  flatly  announced  his  in- 
tention of  staying  at  least  four  days  for  the  purpose 
of  making  sketches.  We  talked  the  matter  over. 
Finally  it  was  agreed.    Deuce  and  I  were  to  make  a 

96 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

wide  circle  to  the  north  and  west  as  far  as  the  Hud- 
son's Bay  post  of  Cloche,  while  Dick  filled  his  note- 
book.   That  night  we  slept  in  beds  for  the  first  time. 

That  is  to  say,  we  slept  until  about  three  o'clock. 
Then  we  became  vaguely  conscious,  through  a  haze 
of  drowse  —  as  one  becomes  conscious  in  the  pause 
of  a  sleeping-car  —  of  voices  outside  our  doors.  Some 
one  said  something  about  its  being  hardly  much  use 
to  go  to  bed.  Another  hoped  the  sheets  were  not 
damp.  A  succession  of  lights  twinkled  across  the 
walls  of  our  room  and  were  vaguely  explained  by 
the  coughing  of  a  steamboat.  We  sank  into  oblivion 
until  the  calling-bell  brought  us  to  our  feet. 

I  happened  to  finish  my  toilet  a  little  before  Dick, 
and  so  descended  to  the  sunlight  until  he  might  be 
ready.  Roosting  on  a  gray  old  boulder  ten  feet  out- 
side the  door  were  two  figures  that  made  me  want  to 
rub  my  eyes. 

The  older  was  a  square,  ruddy-faced  man  of  sixty, 
with  neatly  trimmed,  snow-white  whiskers.  He  had 
on  a  soft  Alpine  hat  of  pearl  gray,  a  modishly  cut 
gray  homespun  suit,  a  tie  in  which  glimmered  an 
opal  pin,  wore  tan  gloves,  and  had  slung  over  one 
shoulder  by  a  narrow  black  strap  a  pair  of  field- 
glasses. 

The  younger  was  a  tall  and  angular  young  fellow, 
of  an  eager  and  sophomoric  youth.  His  hair  was  very 
light  and  very  smoothly  brushed,  his  eyes  blue  and 
rather  near-sighted,  his  complexion  pink,  with  an 

97 


THE  FOREST 

obviously  recent  and  superficial  sunburn,  and  his 
clothes,  from  the  white  Panama  to  the  broad-soled 
low  shoes,  of  the  latest  cut  and  material.  Instinct- 
ively I  sought  his  fraternity  pin.  He  looked  as 
though  he  might  say  "  Rah !  Rah  I "  something  or 
other.    A  camera  completed  his  outfit. 

Tourists  I  How  in  the  world  did  they  get  here  ^ 
And  then  I  remembered  the  twinkle  of  the  lights  and 
the  coughing  of  the  steamboat.  But  what  in  time 
could  they  be  doing  here  *?  Picturesque  as  the  place 
was,  it  held  nothing  to  appeal  to  the  Baedeker  spirit. 
I  surveyed  the  pair  with  some  interest. 

"I  suppose  there  is  pretty  good  fishing  around 
here,"  ventured  the  elder. 

He  evidently  took  me  for  an  inhabitant.  Remem- 
bering my  faded  blue  shirt  and  my  floppy  old  hat 
and  the  red  handkerchief  about  my  neck  and  the 
moccasins  on  my  feet,  I  did  not  blame  him. 

"  I  suppose  there  are  bass  among  the  islands,"  I 
replied. 

We  fell  into  conversation.  I  learned  that  he  and 
his  son  were  from  New  York.  He  learned,  by  a 
final  direct  question  which  was  most  significant  of  his 
not  belonging  to  the  country,  who  I  was.  By  chance 
he  knew  my  name.    He  opened  his  heart. 

"  We  came  down  on  the  City  of  Flint,"  said  he. 
"  My  son  and  I  are  on  a  vacation.  We  have  been 
as  far  as  the  Yellowstone,  and  thought  we  would 
like  to  see  some  of  this  country.    I  was  assured  that 

98 


You  are  a  judge  of  fiction  ;  take  this  ' ' 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

on  this  date  I  could  make  connection  with  the  North 
Star  for  the  south.  I  told  the  purser  of  the  Flint  not 
to  wake  us  up  unless  the  North  Star  was  here  at  the 
docks.  He  bundled  us  off  here  at  three  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  North  Star  was  not  here;  it  is  an  out- 
rage ! " 

He  uttered  various  threats^ 

"  I  thought  the  North  Star  was  running  away  south 
around  the  Perry  Sound  region,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,  but  she  was  to  begin  to-day,  June  i6,  to 
make  this  connection."  He  produced  a  railroad 
folder.    "  It 's  in  this,"  he  continued. 

"Did  you  go  by  that  thing"?  "  I  marveled. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  he. 

"  I  forgot  you  were  an  American,"  said  I.  "  You  're 
in  Canada  now." 

He  looked  his  bewilderment,  so  I  hunted  up  Dick. 
I  detailed  the  situation.  "  He  does  n't  know  the 
race,"  I  concluded.  "  Soon  he  will  be  trying  to  get 
information  out  of  the  agent.  Let 's  be  on  hand." 

We  were  on  hand.  The  tourist,  his  face  very  red, 
his  whiskers  very  white  and  bristly,  marched  impor- 
tantly to  the  agent's  office.  The  latter  comprised  also 
the  post-office,  the  fish  depot,  and  a  general  store. 
The  agent  was  for  the  moment  dickering  in  re  two 
pounds  of  sugar.  This  transaction  took  five  minutes 
to  the  pound.  Mr.  Tourist  waited.  Then  he  opened 
up.  The  agent  heard  him  placidly,  as  one  who  listens 
to  a  curious  tale. 

99 


THE  FOREST 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is,  where 's  that  boat  ?  " 
ended  the  tourist. 

"  Could  n't  say,"  replied  the  agent. 

"  Are  n't  you  the  agent  of  this  company  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  replied  the  agent. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  know  something  about  its 
business  and  plans  and  intentions*?" 

"  Could  n't  say,"  replied  the  agent. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  do  any  good  to  wait  for 
.the  North  Star  *?  Do  you  suppose  they  can  be  com- 
ing? Do  you  suppose  they've  altered  the  sched- 
ule?" 

"  Could  n't  say,"  replied  the  agent. 

"  When  is  the  next  boat  through  here  ?  " 

I  listened  for  the  answer  in  trepidation,  for  I  saw 
that  another  "Couldn't  say"  would  cause  the  red- 
faced  tourist  to  blow  up.  To  my  relief,  the  agent 
merely  inquired,  — - 

"  Nordi  or  south  ?  " 

"  South,  of  course.  I  just  came  from  the  north. 
What  in  the  name  of  everlasting  blazes  should  I 
want  to  go  north  again  for  ?  " 

"  Could  n't  say,"  replied  the  agent.  "  The  next 
boat  south  gets  in  next  week,  Tuesday  or  Wednes- 
day." 

"  Next  week ! "  shrieked  the  tourist. 

"  When 's  the  next  boat  north  ?  "  interposed  the 
son. 

'*  To-morrow  morning." 

lOO 


THE  STRANDED  STRANGERS 

^' What  time?" 

*'  Could  n't  say ;  you  'd  have  to  watch  for  her." 

"  That 's  our  boat,  dad,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  But  we  've  just  come  from  there ! "  snorted  his 
father ;  "  it 's  three  hundred  miles  back.  It  '11  put  us 
behind  two  days.  I  've  got  to  be  in  New  York  Fri- 
day. I  've  got  an  engagement."  He  turned  suddenly 
to  the  agent.    "  Here,  I  've  got  to  send  a  telegram." 

The  agent  blinked  placidly.  "  You  '11  not  send  it 
from  here.    This  ain't  a  telegraph  station." 

"  Where  's  the  nearest  station  %  " 

"  Fifteen  mile." 

Without  further  parley  the  old  man  turned  and 
walked,  stiff  and  military,  from  the  place.  Near  the 
end  of  the  board  walk  he  met  the  usual  doddering 
but  amiable  oldest  inhabitant. 

"  Fine  day,"  chirped  the  patriarch  in  well-meant 
friendliness.  "  They  jest  brought  in  a  bear  cub  over 
to  Antoine's.  If  you  'd  like  to  take  a  look  at  him, 
I  '11  show  you  where  it  is." 

The  tourist  stopped  short  and  glared  fiercely. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "damn  your  bear ! "  Then  he  strode 
on,  leaving  grandpa  staring  after  him. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  we  became  quite 
well  acquainted,  and  he  resigned.  The  son  appeared 
to  take  somewhat  the  humorous  view  all  through 
the  affair,  which  must  have  irritated  the  old  gentle- 
man. They  discussed  it  rather  thoroughly,  and  finally 
decided  to  retrace  their  steps  for  a  fresh  start  over  a 

lOX 


THE  FOREST 

better-known  route.  This  settled,  the  senior  seemed 
to  feel  relieved  of  a  weight.  He  even  saw  and  rel- 
ished certain  funny  phases  of  the  incident,  though  he 
never  ceased  to  foretell  different  kinds  of  trouble  for 
the  company,  varying  in  range  from  mere  complaints 
to  the  most  tremendous  of  damage  suits. 

He  was  much  interested,  finally,  in  our  methods 
of  travel,  and  then,  in  logical  sequence,  with  what  he 
could  see  about  him.  He  watched  curiously  my  load- 
ing of  the  canoe,  for  I  had  a  three-mile  stretch  of  open 
water,  and  the  wind  was  abroad.  Deuce's  empirical 
boat  wisdom  aroused  his  admiration.  He  and  his  son 
were  both  at  the  shore  to  see  me  off. 

Deuce  settled  himself  in  the  bottom.  I  lifted  the 
stern  from  the  shore  and  gently  set  it  afloat  In  a 
moment  I  was  ready  to  start. 

"  Wait  a  minute !  Wait  a  minute ! "  suddenly  cried 
the  father. 

I  swirled  my  paddle  back.  The  old  gentleman  was 
hastily  fumbling  in  his  pockets.  After  an  instant  he 
descended  to  the  water's  edge. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  judge  of  fiction;  take 
this." 

It  was  his  steamboat  and  railway  folder. 


sot 


ON  FLIES 


IX 

ON  FLIES 

ALL  the  rest  of  the  day  I  paddled  under  the 
frowning  cliffs  of  the  hill  ranges.  Bold,  bare, 
scarred,  seamed  with  fissures,  their  precipice  rocks 
gave  the  impression  of  ten  thousand  feet  rather  than 
only  so  many  hundreds.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we 
landed  against  a  formation  of  basaltic  blocks  cut  as 
squarely  up  and  down  as  a  dock,  and  dropping  off 
into  as  deep  water.  The  waves  chug-chug-chugged 
sullenly  against  them,  and  the  fringe  of  a  dark  pine 
forest,  drawn  back  from  a  breadth  of  natural  grass, 
lowered  across  the  horizon  like  a  thunder-cloud. 

Deuce  and  I  made  camp  with  the  uneasy  feeling 
of  being  under  inimical  inspection.  A  cold  wind 
ruffled  lead-like  waters.  No  comfort  was  in  the  pros- 
pect, so  we  retired  early.  Then  it  appeared  that  the 
coarse  grass  of  the  park  had  bred  innumerable  black 
flies,  and  that  we  had  our  work  cut  out  for  us. 

The  question  of  flies  —  using  that,  to  a  woodsman, 
eminently  connotive  word  in  its  wide  embracement 
of  mosquitoes,  sand-fiies,  deer-flies,  black  flies,  and 
midges  —  is  one  much  mooted  in  the  craft.   On  no 

los 


THE  FOREST 

subject  are  more  widely  divergent  ideas  expressed. 
One  writer  claims  that  black  flies'  bites  are  but  the 
temporary  inconvenience  of  a  pin-prick;  another  tells 
of  boils  lasting  a  week  as  the  invariable  result  of  their 
attentions ;  a  third  sweeps  aside  the  whole  question 
as  unimportant  to  concentrate  his  anathemas  on  the 
musical  mosquito ;  still  a  fourth  descants  on  the  mad- 
dening midge,  and  is  prepared  to  defend  his  claims 
against  the  world.  A  like  dogmatic  partisanship  ob- 
tains in  the  question  of  defenses.  Each  and  every 
man  possessed  of  a  tongue  wherewith  to  speak  or  a 
pen  wherewith  to  write,  heralds  the  particular  merits 
of  his  own  fly-dope,  head-net,  or  mosquito-proof  tent- 
lining.  Eager  advocates  of  the  advantages  of  pork 
fat,  kerosene,  pine  tar,  pennyroyal,  oil  of  cloves,  castor 
oil,  loUacapop,  or  a  half  hundred  other  concoctions 
will  assure  you,  tears  in  eyes,  that  his  is  the  only 
true  faith.  So  many  men,  so  many  minds,  until  the 
theorist  is  confused  into  doing  the  most  uncomfort- 
able thing  possible  —  that  is,  to  learn  by  experience. 
As  for  the  truth- 1*-  is  at  once  in  ^l-l  of  them  and  in 
none  of  them.  The  annoyance  of  after-effects  from  a 
sting  depends  entirely  on  the  individual's  physical 
make-up.  Some  people  are  so  poisoned  by  mosquito 
bites  that  three  or  four  on  the  forehead  suffice  to  close 
entirely  the  victim's  eyes.  On  others  they  leave  but 
a  small  red  mark  without  swelling.  Black  flies  caused 
festering  sores  on  one  man  I  accompanied  to  the 
woods.     In  my  own  case  they  leave  only  a  tiny 

io6 


ON  FLIES 

blood-spot  the  size  of  a  pin-head,  which  bothers  mc 
not  a  bit.  Midges  nearly  drove  crazy  the  same  com- 
panion of  mine,  so  that  finally  he  jumped  into  the 
river,  clothes  and  all,  to  get  rid  of  them.  Again, 
merely  my  own  experience  would  lead  me  to  regard 
them  as  a  tremendous  nuisance,  but  one  quite  bear- 
able. Indians  are  less  susceptible  than  whites ;  never- 
theless I  have  seen  them  badly  swelled  behind  the 
ears  from  the  bites  of  the  big  hardwood  mosquito. 

You  can  make  up  your  mind  to  one  thing — from 
the  first  warm  weather  until  August  you  must  expect 
to  cope  with  insect  pests.  The  black  fly  will  keep  you 
busy  until  late  afternoon;  the  midges  will  swarm 
you  about  sunset ;  and  the  mosquito  will  preserve 
the  tradition  after  you  have  turned  in.  As  for  the 
deer-fly,  and  others  of  his  piratical  breed,  he  will  bite 
like  a  dog  at  any  time. 

To  me  the  most  annoying  species  is  the  mosquito. 
The  black  fly  is  sometimes  most  industrious  —  I  have 
seen  trout  fishermen  come  into  camp  with  the  blood 
literally  streaming  from  their  faces  —  but  his  great 
recommendation  is  that  he  holds  still  to  be  killed. 
No  frantic  slaps,  no  waving  of  arms,  no  muffled 
curses.  You  just  place  your  finger  calmly  and 
firmly  on  the  spot.  You  get  him  every  time.  In 
this  is  great,  heart-lifting  joy.  It  may  be  unholy  joy, 
perhaps  even  vengeful,  but  it  leaves  the  spirit  ecstatic. 
The  satisfaction  of  murdering  the  beast  that  has  had 
the  nerve  to  light  on  you  just  as  you  are  reeling  in 

107 


THE  FOREST 

almost  counterbalances  the  pain  of  a  sting.  The 
midge,  again — or  punkie,  or  "  no-see-'um,"  just  as 
you  please  —  swarms  down  upon  you  suddenly  and 
with  commendable  vigor,  so  that  you  feel  as  though 
redhot  pepper  were  being  sprinkled  on  your  bare  skin; 
and  his  invisibiHty  and  intangibility  are  such  that  you 
can  never  tell  whether  you  have  killed  him  or  not; 
but  he  does  n't  last  long,  and  dope  routs  him  to- 
tally. Your  mosquito,  however,  is  such  a  deliberate 
brute.  He  has  in  him  some  of  that  divine  fire  which 
causes  a  dog  to  turn  around  nine  times  before  lying 
down. 

Whether  he  is  selecting  or  gloating  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  do  maintain  that  the  price  of  your  life's  blood 
is  often  not  too  great  to  pay  for  the  cessation  of  that 
hum. 

"  Eet  is  not  hees  bite,"  said  Billy,  the  half-breed,  to 
me  once,  "  eet  is  hees  sing." 

I  agree  with  Billy.  One  mosquito  in  a  tent  can 
keep  you  awake  for  hours. 

As  to  protection,  it  is  varied  enough  in  all  con- 
science, and  always  theoretically  perfect.  A  head-net 
falling  well  down  over  your  chest,  or  even  tied  under 
your  arm-pits,  is  at  once  the  simplest  and  most 
fallacious  of  these  theories.  It  will  keep  vast  numbers 
of  flies  out,  to  be  sure.  It  will  also  keep  the  few  ad- 
venturous discoverers  in,  where  you  can  neither  kill 
nor  eject.  Likewise  you  are  deprived  of  your  pipe ; 
and  the  common  homely  comfort  of  spitting  on  your 

io8 


ON  FLIES 

bait  is  totally  denied  you.  The  landscape  takes  on 
the  prismatic  colors  of  refraction,  so  that,  while  you 
can  easily  make  out  red,  white,  and  blue  Chinese 
dragons  and  mythological  monsters,  you  are  unable 
to  discover  the  more  welcome  succulence,  say,  of  a 
partridge  on  a  limb.  And  the  end  of  that  head-net  is 
to  be  picked  to  holes  by  the  brush,  and  finally  to  be 
snatched  from  you  to  sapling  height,  whence  your 
pains  will  rescue  it  only  in  a  useless  condition.  Prob- 
ably then  you  will  dance  the  war-dance  of  exasper- 
ation on  its  dismembered  remains.  Still,  there  are 
times  —  in  case  of  straight-away  river  paddling,  or 
open  walking,  or  lengthened  waiting  —  when  the  net 
is  a  great  comfort.  And  it  is  easily  included  in  the 
pack. 

Next  in  order  come  the  various  "  dopes."  And  they 
are  various.  From  the  stickiest,  blackest  pastes  to 
the  silkiest,  suavest  oils  they  range,  through  the 
grades  of  essence,  salve,  and  cream.  Every  man  has 
his  own  recipe  —  the  infallible.  As  a  general  rule,  it 
may  be  stated  that  the  thicker  kinds  last  longer  and 
are  generally  more  thoroughly  effective,  but  the 
lighter  are  pleasanter  to  wear,  though  requiring  more 
frequent  application.  At  a  pinch,  ordinary  pork  fat 
is  good.  The  Indians  often  make  temporary  use  of 
the  broad  caribou  leaf,  crushing  it  between  their 
palms  and  rubbing  the  juices  on  the  skin.  I  know  by 
experience  that  this  is  effective,  but  very  transitory. 
It  is,  however,  a  good  thing  to  use  when  resting  on 

109 


THE  FOREST 

the  trail,  for,  by  the  grace  of  Providence,  flies  arc 
rarely  bothersome  as  long  as  you  are  moving  at  a  fair 
gait. 

This  does  not  always  hold  good,  however,  any 
more  than  the  best  fly-dope  is  always  effective.  I  re- 
member most  vividly  the  first  day  of  a  return  journey 
from  the  shores  of  the  Hudson  Bay.  The  weather 
was  rather  oppressively  close  and  overcast  Wc  had 
paddled  a  few  miles  up  river  from  the  fur  trading- 
post,  and  then  had  landed  in  order  to  lighten  the 
canoe  for  the  ascent  against  the  current.  At  that 
point  the  forest  has  already  begun  to  dwindle  toward 
the  Land  of  Little  Sticks,  so  that  often  miles  and 
miles  of  open  muskegs  will  intervene  between  groups 
of  the  stunted  trees.  Jim  and  I  found  ourselves  a 
little  over  waist  deep  in  luxuriant  and  tangled  grasses 
that  impeded  and  clogged  our  every  footstep.  Never 
shall  I  forget  that  country  —  its  sad  and  lonely  iso- 
lation, its  dull  lead  sky,  its  silence,  and  the  closeness 
of  its  stifling  atmosphere  —  and  never  shall  I  see  it 
otherwise  than  as  in  a  dense  brown  haze,  a  haze  com- 
posed of  swarming  millions  of  mosquitoes.  There 
is  not  the  slightest  exaggeration  in  the  statement. 
At  every  step  new  multitudes  rushed  into  our  faces 
to  join  the  old.  At  times  Jim's  back  was  so  cov- 
ered with  them  that  they  almost  overlaid  the  color 
of  the  cloth.  And  as  near  as  we  could  see,  every 
square  foot  of  the  thousands  of  acres  quartered  its 
hordes. 

no 


ON  FLIES 

We  doped  liberally,  but  without  the  slightest 
apparent  effect.  Probably  two  million  squeamish 
mosquitoes  were  driven  away  by  the  disgust  of  our 
medicaments,  but  what  good  did  that  do  us  when 
eight  million  others  were  not  so  particular?  At  the 
last  we  hung  bandanas  under  our  hats,  cut  fans  of 
leaves,  and  stumbled  on  through  a  most  miserable 
day  until  we  could  build  a  smudge  at  evening. 

For  smoke  is  usually  a  specific.  Not  always,  how- 
ever —  some  midges  seem  to  delight  in  it.  The  In- 
dians make  a  tiny  blaze  of  birch  bark  and  pine  twigs 
deep  in  a  nest  of  grass  and  caribou  leaves.  When 
the  flame  is  well  started,  they  twist  the  growing  vege- 
tation canopy-wise  above  it.  In  that  manner  they 
gain  a  few  minutes  of  dense,  acrid  smoke,  which  is 
enough  for  an  Indian.  A  white  man,  however,  needs 
something  more  elaborate. 

The  chief  reason  for  your  initial  failure  in  making 
an  effective  smudge  will  be  that  you  will  not  get 
your  fire  well  started  before  piling  on  the  damp 
smoke-material.  It  need  not  be  a  conflagration,  but  it 
should  be  bright  and  glowing,  so  that  the  punk  birch 
or  maple  wood  you  add  will  not  smother  it  entirely. 
After  it  is  completed,  you  will  not  have  to  sit 
coughing  in  the  thick  of  fumigation,  as  do  many, 
but  only  to  leeward  and  underneath.  Your  hat  used 
as  a  fan  will  eddy  the  smoke  temporarily  into  de- 
sirable nooks  and  crevices.  I  have  slept  without  an- 
noyance on  the  Great  Plains,  where  the  mosquitoes 

III 


THE  FOREST 

seem  to  go  in  organized  and  predatory  bands,  merely 
by  lying  beneath  a  smudge  that  passed  at  least  five 
feet  above  me.  You  will  find  the  fi-ying-pan  a  handy 
brazier  for  the  accommodation  of  a  movable  smoke 
to  be  transported  to  the  interior  of  the  tent.  And  it 
does  not  in  the  least  hurt  the  frying-pan.  These  be 
hints,  briefly  spoken,  out  of  which  at  times  you  may 
have  to  construct  elaborate  campaigns. 

But  you  come  to  grapples  in  the  defense  of  com- 
fort when  night  approaches.  If  you  can  eat  and  sleep 
well,  you  can  stand  almost  any  hardship.  The  night's 
rest  is  as  carefully  to  be  fore-assured  as  the  food  that 
sustains  you.  No  precaution  is  too  elaborate  to  cer- 
tify unbroken  repose. 

By  dark  you  will  discover  the  peak  of  your  tent 
to  be  liberally  speckled  with  insects  of  all  sorts.  Es- 
pecially is  this  true  of  an  evening  that  threatens  rain. 
Your  smudge-pan  may  drive  away  the  mosquitoes, 
but  merely  stupefies  the  other  varieties.  You  are 
forced  to  the  manipulation  of  a  balsam  fan. 

In  your  use  of  this  simple  implement  you  will  be- 
tray the  extent  of  your  experience.  Dick  used  at 
first  to  begin  at  the  rear  peak  and  brush  as  rapidly  as 
possible  toward  the  opening.  The  flies,  thoroughly 
aroused,  eddied  about  a  few  frantic  moments,  like 
leaves  in  an  autumn  wind,  finally  to  settle  close  to 
the  sod  in  the  crannies  between  the  tent-wall  and  the 
ground.  Then  Dick  would  lie  flat  on  his  belly  in 
order  to  brush  with  equal  vigor  at  these  new  lurking- 

112 


You  are  forced  to  the  manipulation  of  a  balsam  fan 


ON  FLIES 

places.  The  flies  repeated  the  autumn-leaf  effect,  and 
returned  to  the  rear  peak.  This  was  amusing  to  me 
and  furnished  the  flies  with  healthful,  appetizing 
exercise,  but  was  bad  for  Dick's  soul.  After  a  time 
he  discovered  the  only  successful  method  is  the  gentle 
one.  Then  he  began  at  the  peak  and  brushed  for- 
ward slowly,  very,  very  slowly,  so  that  the  limited 
intellect  of  his  visitors  did  not  become  confused. 
Thus  when  they  arrived  at  the  opening  they  saw  it 
and  used  it,  instead  of  searching  frantically  for  corners 
in  which  to  hide  from  apparently  vengeful  destruc- 
tion. Then  he  would  close  his  tent-flap  securely,  and 
turn  in  at  once.  So  he  was  able  to  sleep  until  earliest 
daylight.  At  that  time  the  mosquitoes  again  found 
him  out. 

Nine  out  of  ten,  perhaps  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hun- 
dred, sleep  in  open  tents.  For  absolute  and  perfect 
comfort  proceed  as  follows  :  Have  your  tent-maker 
sew  you  a  tent  of  cheese-cloth '  with  the  same  dimen- 
sions as  your  shelter,  except  that  the  walls  should  be 
loose  and  voluminous  at  the  bottom.  It  should  have 
no  openings.  Suspend  this  affair  inside  your  tent  by 
means  of  cords  or  tapes.  Drop  it  about  you.  Spread 
it  out.  Lay  rod-cases,  duffel-bags,  or  rocks  along  its 
lower  edges  to  keep  it  spread.  You  will  sleep  be- 
neath it  like  a  child  in  winter.    No  driving  out  of 

*  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  talked  into  substituting  mosquito-bar 
or  bobinet.  Any  mesh  coarser  than  cheese-cloth  will  prove  pregnable 
to  the  most  enterprising  of  the  smaller  species. 

113 


THE  FOREST 

reluctant  flies;  no  enforced  early  rising;  no  danger 
of  a  single  overlooked  insect  to  make  the  midnight 
miserable.  The  cheese-cloth  weighs  almost  nothing, 
can  be  looped  up  out  of  the  way  in  the  daytime,  ad- 
mits the  air  readily.  Nothing  could  fill  the  soul  with 
more  ecstatic  satisfaction  than  to  lie  for  a  moment 
before  going  to  sleep  listening  to  a  noise  outside  like 
an  able-bodied  sawmill  that  indicates  the  ping-gosh 
are  abroad. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  leave  the  subject  without  a 
passing  reference  to  its  effect  on  the  imagination. 
We  are  all  familiar  with  comic  paper  mosquito  sto- 
ries, and  some  of  them  are  very  good.  But  until 
actual  experience  takes  you  by  the  hand  and  leads  you 
into  the  realm  of  pure  fancy,  you  will  never  know  of 
what  improvisation  the  human  mind  is  capable. 

The  picture  rises  before  my  mind  of  the  cabin  of 
a  twenty-eight-foot  cutter-sloop  just  before  the  dawn 
of  a  midsummer  day.  The  sloop  was  made  for  busi- 
ness, and  the  cabin  harmonized  exactly  with  the 
sloop  —  painted  pine,  wooden  bunks  without  mat- 
tresses, camp-blankets,  duffel-bags  slung  up  because 
all  the  floor  place  had  been  requisitioned  for  sleeping 
purposes.  We  were  anchored  a  hundred  feet  off  land 
from  Pilot  Cove,  on  the  uninhabited  north  shore. 
The  mosquitoes  had  adventured  on  the  deep.  We 
lay  half  asleep. 

"On  the  middle  rafter,"  murmured  the  Football 
Man,  "  is  one  old  fellow  giving  signals." 

114 


ON  FLIES 

"A  quartette  is  singing  drinking-songs  on  my 
nose,"  muttered  the  Glee  Club  Man. 

"We  won't  need  to  cook,"  I  suggested  somno- 
lently. "  We  can  run  up  and  down  on  deck  with 
our  mouths  open  and  get  enough  for  breakfast." 

The  fourth  member  opened  one  eye.  "  Boys,"  he 
breathed, "  we  won't  be  able  to  go  on  to-morrow  un- 
less we  give  up  having  any  more  biscuits." 

After  a  time  some  one  murmured,  "  Why?  " 

"  We  'II  have  to  use  all  the  lard  on  the  mast. 
They  're  so  mad  because  they  can't  get  at  us  that 
they  're  biting  the  mast.  It 's  already  swelled  up  as 
big  as  a  barrel.  We  'II  never  be  able  to  get  the  main- 
sail up.  Any  of  you  boys  got  any  vaseline  ?  Per- 
haps a  little  fly-dope  "  — 

But  we  snored  vigorously  in  unison. 

The  Indians  say  that  when  Kitch'  Manitou  had 
created  men  he  was  dissatisfied,  and  so  brought 
women  into  being.  At  once  love-making  began, 
and  then,  as  now,  the  couples  sought  solitude  for 
their  exchanges  of  vows,  their  sighings  to  the  moon, 
their  claspings  of  hands.  Marriages  ensued.  The 
situation  remained  unchanged.  Life  was  one  per- 
petual honeymoon.  I  suppose  the  novelty  was  fresh 
and  the  sexes  had  not  yet  realized  they  would  not 
part  as  abruptly  as  they  had  been  brought  together. 
The  villages  were  deserted,  while  the  woods  and 
bushes  were  populous  with  wedded  and  unwedded 
lovers.    Kitch'  Manitou  looked  on  the  proceedings 

"5 


THE  FOREST 

with  disapproval.  All  this  was  most  romantic  and 
beautiful,  no  doubt,  but  in  the  mean  time  mi-daw- 
min,  the  corn,  mi-no-men,  the  rice,  grew  rank  and 
uncultivated;  while  bis-iw,  the  lynx,  and  swingwaage, 
the  wolverine,  and  me-en-gan,  the  wolf,  committed 
unchecked  depredations  among  the  weaker  forest 
creatures.  The  business  of  life  was  being  sadly  neg- 
lected. So  Kitch'  Manitou  took  counsel  with  him- 
self, and  created  saw-gi-may,  the  mosquito,  to  whom 
he  gave  as  dwelling  the  woods  and  bushes.  That 
took  the  romance  out  of  the  situation.  As  my  nar- 
rator grimly  expressed  it,  "  Him  come  back,  go  to 
work." 

Certainly  it  should  be  most  effective.  Even  the 
thick-skinned  moose  is  not  exempt  from  discomfort. 
At  certain  seasons  the  canoe  voyager  in  the  Far  North 
will  run  up  on  a  dozen  in  the  course  of  a  day's  travel, 
standing  nose-deep  in  the  river  merely  to  escape  the 
insect  pests. 

However,  this  is  to  be  remembered :  after  the  first 
of  August  they  bother  very  little  ;  before  that  time 
the  campaign  I  have  outlined  is  effective ;  even  in 
fly  season  the  worst  days  are  infrequent;  in  the 
woods  you  must  expect  to  pay  a  certain  price  in 
discomfort  for  a  very  real  and  very  deep  pleasure. 
Wet,  heat,  cold,  hunger,  thirst,  difficult  travel,  insects, 
hard  beds,  aching  muscles  —  all  these  at  one  time 
or  another  will  be  your  portion.  If  you  are  of  the 
class  that  carmot  have  a  good  time  unless  everything 

ii6 


ON  FLIES 

is  right  with  it,  stay  out  of  the  woods.  One  thing  at 
least  will  always  be  wrong.  When  you  have  gained 
the  faculty  of  ignoring  the  one  disagreeable  thing 
and  concentrating  your  powers  on  the  compensations, 
then  you  will  have  become  a  true  woodsman,  and  to 
your  desires  the  forest  will  always  be  calling. 


iir 


CLOCHE 


r  's "^ 


(     .  I 


X 

CLOCHE 

IMAGINE  a  many-armed  lake,  like  a  starfish., 
nested  among  rugged  Laurentian  hills,  whose 
brows  are  bare  and  forbidding,  but  whose  concealed 
ravines  harbor  each  its  cool  screen  of  forest  growth. 
Imagine  a  brawling  stream  escaping  at  one  of  the 
arms,  to  tumble,  intermittently  visible  among  the  trees, 
down  a  series  of  cascades  and  rapids,  to  the  broad, 
island-dotted  calm  of  the  big  lake.  Imagine  a  meadow 
at  the  mouth  of  this  stream,  and  on  the  meadow  a 
single  white  dot.  Thus  you  will  see  Cloche,  a  trading- 
post  of  the  Honorable  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company, 
as  Deuce  and  I  saw  it  from  the  summit  of  the  hills. 
We  had  accomplished  a  very  hard  scramble,  which 
started  well  enough  in  a  ravine  so  leafy  and  green 
and  impenetrable  that  we  might  well  have  imagined 
ourselves  in  a  boundless  forest.  Deuce  had  scented 
sundry  partridges,  which  he  had  pointed  with  entire 
deference  to  the  good  form  of  a  sporting  dog's  con- 
ventions. As  usual,  to  Deuce's  never-failing  surprise 
and  disgust,  the  birds  had  proved  themselves  most 
uncultivated  and  rude  persons  by  hopping  promptly 

121 


THE  FOREST 

into  trees  instead  of  lying  to  point  and  then  flush- 
ing as  a  well-taught  partridge  should.  I  had  refused 
to  pull  pistol  on  them.  Deuce's  heart  was  broken. 
Then,  finally,  we  came  to  cliffs  up  which  we  had  to 
scale,  and  boulders  which  we  had  to  climb,  and  fissures 
which  we  had  to  jump  or  cross  on  fallen  trees,  and 
wide,  bare  sweeps  of  rock  and  blueberry-bushes  which 
we  had  to  cover,  until  at  last  we  stood  where  we 
could  look  all  ways  at  once. 

The  starfish  thrust  his  insinuating  arms  in  among 
the  distant  hills  to  the  north.  League  after  league, 
rising  and  falling  and  rising  again  into  ever  bluer 
distance,  forest-covered,  mysterious,  other  ranges  and 
systems  lifted,  until  at  last,  far  out,  nearly  at  the 
horizon-height  of  my  eye,  flashed  again  the  gleam  of 
water.  And  so  the  starfish  arms  of  the  little  lake  at 
my  feet  seemed  to  have  plunged  into  this  wilderness 
tangle  only  to  reappear  at  greater  distance.  Like 
swamp-fire,  it  lured  the  imagination  always  on  and  on 
and  on  through  the  secret  waterways  of  the  uninhab- 
ited North.  It  was  as  though  I  stood  on  the  divid- 
ing ridge  between  the  old  and  the  new.  Through 
the  southern  haze,  hull  down,  I  thought  to  make  out 
the  smoke  of  a  Great  Lake  freighter;  from  the  shelter 
of  a  distant  cove  I  was  not  surprised  a  moment  later 
to  see  emerge  a  tiny  speck  whose  movements  betrayed 
it  as  a  birch  canoe.  The  great  North  was  at  this, 
the  most  southern  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  posts,  striking 
a  pin-point  of  contact  with  the  world  of  men. 

122 


CLOCHE 

Deuce  and  I  angled  down  the  mountain  toward 
the  stream.  Our  arrival  coincided  with  that  of  the 
canoe.  It  was  of  the  Ojibway  three-fathom  pattern, 
and  contained  a  half-dozen  packs,  a  sledge-dog,  with 
whom  Deuce  at  once  opened  guarded  negotiations, 
an  old  Indian,  a  squaw,  and  a  child  of  six  or  eight. 
We  exchanged  brief  greetings.  Then  I  sat  on  a 
stump  and  watched  the  portage. 

These  were  evidently  "  Woods  Indians,"  an  entirely 
different  article  from  the  "  Post  Indians."  They  wore 
their  hair  long,  and  bound  by  a  narrow  strip  or  fillet ; 
their  faces  were  hard  and  deeply  lined,  with  a  fine, 
bold,  far-seeing  look  to  the  eyes  which  comes  only 
from  long  woods  dwelling.  They  walked,  even  under 
heavy  loads,  with  a  sagging,  springy  gait,  at  once 
sure-footed  and  swift.  Instead  of  tump-lines  the  man 
used  his  sash,  and  the  woman  a  blanket  knotted 
loosely  together  at  the  ends.  The  details  of  their 
costumes  were  interesting  in  combination  of  jeans 
and  buckskin,  broadcloth  and  blanket,  stroud  and  a 
material  evidently  made  from  the  strong  white  sack- 
ing in  which  flour  intended  for  frontier  consumption 
is  always  packed.  After  the  first  double-barreled 
"  bo'  jou',  bo'  jou',"  they  paid  no  further  attention  to 
me.  In  a  few  moments  the  portage  was  completed. 
The  woman  thrust  her  paddle  against  the  stream's 
bottom  and  the  canoe,  and  so  embarked.  The  man 
stepped  smoothly  to  his  place  like  a  cat  leaping  from 
a  chair.   They  shot  away  with  the  current,  leaving 

123 


THE  FOREST 

behind  them  a  strange  and  mysterious  impression  of 
silence. 

I  followed  down  a  narrow  but  well-beaten  trail, 
and  so  at  the  end  of  a  half-mile  came  to  the  meadow 
and  the  post  of  Cloche. 

The  building  itself  was  accurately  of  the  Hudson 
Bay  type  —  a  steep,  sloping  roof  greater  in  front 
than  behind,  a  deep  recessed  veranda,  squared  logs 
sheathed  with  whitewashed  boards.  About  it  was  a 
little  garden,  which,  besides  the  usual  flowers  and 
vegetables,  contained  such  exotics  as  a  deer  confined 
to  a  pen  and  a  bear  chained  to  a  stake.  As  I  ap- 
proached, the  door  opened  and  the  Trader  came  out. 

Now,  often  along  the  southern  fringe  your  Hud- 
son's Bay  Trader  will  prove  to  be  a  distinct  dis- 
appointment. In  fact,  one  of  the  historic  old  posts 
is  now  kept  by  a  pert  little  cockney  Englishman, 
cringing  or  impudent  as  the  main  chance  seems  to 
advise.  When  you  have  penetrated  farther  into  the 
wilderness,  however,  where  the  hardships  of  winter 
and  summer  travel,  the  loneliness  of  winter  posts, 
the  necessity  of  dealing  directly  with  savage  men 
and  savage  nature,  develops  the  quality  of  a  man  or 
wrecks  him  early  in  the  game,  you  will  be  certain 
of  meeting  your  type.  But  here,  within  fifty  miles 
of  the  railroad  I 

The  man  who  now  stepped  into  view,  however, 
preserved  in  his  appearance  all  the  old  traditions. 
He  was,  briefly,  a  short  black-and-white  man  built 

124 


CLOCHE 

very  square.  Immense  power  lurked  m  the  broad, 
heavy  shoulders,  the  massive  chest,  the  thick  arms, 
the  sturdy,  column-like  legs.  As  for  his  face,  it  was 
almost  entirely  concealed  behind  a  curly  square 
black  beard  that  grew  above  his  cheek-bones  nearly 
to  his  eyes.  Only  a  thick  hawk  nose,  an  inscrutable 
pair  of  black  eyes  under  phenomenally  hairy  eye- 
brows, and  a  short  black  pipe  showed  plainly  from 
the  hirsute  tangle.  He  was  lock,  stock,  and  barrel  of 
the  Far  North,  one  of  the  old  regime.  I  was  rejoiced 
to  see  him  there,  but  did  not  betray  a  glimmer  of 
interest.    I  knew  my  type  too  well  for  that. 

"  How  are  you,"  he  said,  grudgingly. 

"  Good-day,"  said  I. 

We  leaned  against  the  fence  and  smoked,  each 
contemplating  carefully  the  end  of  his  pipe.  I  knew 
better  than  to  say  anything.  The  Trader  was  looking 
me  over,  making  up  his  mind  about  me.  Speech  on 
my  part  would  argue  lightness  of  disposition,  for  it 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  I  was  not  also  making 
up  my  mind  about  him.  In  this  pause  there  was  not 
the  least  unfriendliness.  Only,  in  the  woods  you  pre- 
fer to  know  first  the  business  and  character  of  a  chance 
acquaintance.  Afterwards  you  may  ingratiate  to  his 
good  will.  All  of  which  possesses  a  beautiful  sim- 
plicity, for  it  proves  that  good  or  bad  opinion  need 
not  depend  on  how  gracefully  you  can  chatter  assur- 
ances. At  the  end  of  a  long  period  the  Trader  in- 
quired, "  Which  way  you  headed  ?  " 

125 


THE  FOREST 

"  Out  in  a  canoe  for  pleasure.  Headed  almost  any- 
where." 

Again  we  smoked. 

"  Dog  any  good  ?  "  asked  the  Trader,  removing 
his  pipe  and  pointing  to  the  observant  Deuce. 

"  He  '11  hunt  shade  on  a  hot  day,"  said  I,  tenta- 
tively.   "  How  's  the  fur  in  this  district  ?  " 

We  were  off.  He  invited  me  in  and  showed  me 
his  bear.  In  ten  minutes  we  were  seated  chair-tilted 
on  the  veranda,  and  slowly,  very  cautiously,  in  ab- 
breviated syncopation,  were  feeling  our  way  toward 
an  intimacy. 

Now  came  the  Indians  I  had  seen  at  the  lake  to 
barter  for  some  flour  and  pork.  I  was  glad  of  the 
chance  to  follow  them  all  into  the  trading-room.  A 
low  wooden  counter  backed  by  a  grill  divided  the 
main  body  of  the  room  from  the  entrance.  It  was 
deliciously  dim.  All  the  charm  of  the  Aromatic  Shop 
was  in  the  place,  and  an  additional  flavor  of  the  wilds. 
Everything  here  was  meant  for  the  Indian  trade. 
Bolts  of  bright-patterned  ginghams,  blankets  of  red 
or  blue,  articles  of  clothing,  boxes  of  beads  for  deco- 
ration, skeins  of  brilliant  silk,  lead  bars  for  bullet- 
making,  stacks  of  long  brass-bound  "  trade  guns  "  in 
the  corner,  small  mirrors,  red  and  parti-colored  worsted 
sashes  with  tassels  on  the  ends,  steel  traps  of  various 
sizes,  and  a  dozen  other  articles  to  be  desired  by  the 
forest  people.  And  here,  unlike  the  Aromatic  Shop, 
were  none  of  the  products  of  the  Far  North.   All 

126 


CLOCHE 

that,  I  knew,  was  to  be  found  elsewhere,  in  another 
apartment,  equally  dim,  but  delightful  in  the  orderly- 
disorder  of  a  storeroom. 

Afterwards  I  made  the  excuse  of  a  pair  of  mocca- 
sins to  see  this  other  room.  We  climbed  a  steep, 
rough  flight  of  stairs  to  emerge  through  a  sort  of 
trap-door  into  a  space  directly  under  the  roof  It  was 
lit  only  by  a  single  little  square  at  one  end.  Deep 
under  the  eaves  I  could  make  out  row  after  row  of 
boxes  and  chests.  From  the  rafters  hung  a  dozen 
pair  of  snow-shoes.  In  the  center  of  the  floor,  half 
overturned,  lay  an  open  box  from  which  tumbled 
dozens  of  pairs  of  moose-hide  snow-shoe  mocca- 
sins. 

Shades  of  childhood,  what  a  place  !  No  one  of  us 
can  fail  to  recall  with  a  thrill  the  delights  of  a  rum- 
mage in  the  attic ;  the  joy  of  pulling  from  some  half- 
forgotten  trunk  a  wholly  forgotten  shabby  garment 
which  nevertheless  has  taken  to  itself  from  the  still- 
ness of  undisturbed  years  the  faint  aroma  of  romance ; 
the  rapture  of  discovering  in  the  dusk  of  a  concealed 
nook  some  old  spur  or  broken  knife  or  rusty  pistol 
redolent  of  the  open  road.  Such  essentially  common- 
place affairs  they  are,  after  all,  in  the  light  of  our 
mature  common  sense,  but  such  unspeakable  ecsta- 
sies to  the  romance-breathing  years  of  fancy.  Here 
would  no  fancy  be  required.  To  rummage  in  these 
silent  chests  and  boxes  would  be  to  rummage,  not 
in  the  fictions  of  imagination,  but  the  facts  of  the 

127 


THE  FOREST 

most  real  picturesque.  In  yonder  square  box  are  the 
smoke-tanned  shoes  of  silence ;  that  velvet  dimness 
would  prove  to  be  the  fur  of  a  bear ;  this  birch-bark 
package  contains  maple  sugar  savored  of  the  wilds. 
Buckskin,  both  white  and  buff,  bears'  claws  in  strings, 
bundles  of  medicinal  herbs,  sweet-grass  baskets  fra- 
grant as  an  Eastern  tale,  birch-bark  boxes  embroidered 
with  stained  quills  of  the  porcupines,  bows  of  hickory 
and  arrows  of  maple,  queer  half-boots  of  stiff  sealskin 
from  the  very  shores  of  the  Hudson  Bay,  belts  of 
beadwork,  yellow  and  green,  for  the  Corn  Dance, 
even  a  costume  or  so  of  buckskin  complete  for  cere- 
monial—  all  these  the  fortunate  child  would  find 
were  he  to  take  the  rainy-day  privilege  in  this,  the 
most  wonderful  attic  in  all  the  world.  And  then, 
after  he  had  stroked  the  soft  fur,  and  smelled  the 
buckskin  and  sweet-grasses,  and  tasted  the  crumbling 
maple  sugar,  and  dressed  himself  in  the  barbaric 
splendors  of  the  North,  he  could  flatten  his  little 
nose  against  the  dim  square  of  light  and  look  out 
over  the  glistening  yellow  backs  of  a  dozen  birch- 
bark  canoes  to  the  distant,  rain-blurred  hills,  beyond 
which  lay  the  country  whence  all  these  things  had 
come.  Do  you  wonder  that  in  after  years  that  child 
hits  the  Long  Trail  ?  Do  you  still  wonder  at  finding 
these  strange,  taciturn,  formidable,  tender-hearted 
men  dwelling  lonely  in  the  Silent  Places  ? 

The  Trader  yanked  several  of  the  boxes  to  the 
center  and  prosaically  tumbled  about  their  contents. 

128 


CLOCHE 

He  brought  to  light  heavy  moose-hide  moccasins  with 
high  linen  tops  for  the  snow ;  lighter  buckskin  moc- 
casins,  again  with  the  high  tops,  but  this  time  of 
white  tanned  doeskin;  slipper-like  deerskin  mocca- 
sins with  rolled  edges  for  the  summer;  oil-tanned 
shoepacs,  with  and  without  the  flexible  leather  sole; 
"  cruisers  "  of  varying  degree  of  height  —  each  and 
every  sort  of  foot-gear  in  use  in  the  Far  North,  ex- 
cepting and  saving  always  the  beautiful  soft  doeskin 
slippers  finished  with  white  fawnskin  and  ornamented 
with  the  Ojibway  flower  pattern  for  which  I  sought. 
Finally  he  gave  it  up. 

"  I  had  a  few  pair.  They  must  have  been  sent 
out,"  said  he. 

We  rummaged  a  little  further  for  luck's  sake, 
then  descended  to  the  outer  air.  I  left  him  to  fetch 
my  canoe,  but  returned  in  the  afternoon.  We  be- 
came friends.  That  evening  we  sat  in  the  little  sit- 
ting-room and  talked  far  into  the  night. 

He  was  a  true  Hudson's  Bay  man,  steadfastly 
loyal  to  the  Company.  I  mentioned  the  legend  of  la 
Longue  'Traverse ;  he  stoutly  asserted  he  had  never 
heard  of  it.  I  tried  to  buy  a  minkskin  or  so  to  hang 
on  the  wall  as  souvenir  of  my  visit ;  he  was  genu- 
inely distressed,  but  had  to  refuse  because  the  Com- 
pany had  not  authorized  him  to  sell,  and  he  had 
nothing  of  his  own  to  give.  I  mentioned  the  River 
of  the  Moose,  the  Land  of  Little  Sticks ;  his  deep 
eyes  sparkled  with  excitement,  and  he  asked  eagerly 

129 


THE  FOREST 

a  multitude  of  details  concerning  late  news  from  the 
northern  posts. 

And  as  the  evening  dwindled,  after  the  manner  of 
Traders  everywhere  he  began  to  tell  me  the  "  ghost 
stories "  of  this  station  of  Cloche.  Every  post  has 
gathered  a  mass  of  legendary  lore  in  the  slow  years, 
but  this  had  been  on  the  route  of  the  voyageurs  from 
Montreal  and  Quebec  at  the  time  when  the  lords  of 
the  North  journeyed  to  the  scenes  of  their  annual 
revels  at  Fort  Williams.  The  Trader  had  much  to 
say  of  the  magnificence  and  luxury  of  these  men  — 
their  cooks,  their  silken  tents,  their  strange  and  costly 
foods,  their  rare  wines,  their  hordes  of  French  and 
Indian  canoemen  and  packers.  Then  Cloche  was  a 
halting-place  for  the  night.  Its  meadows  had  blos- 
somed many  times  with  the  gay  tents  and  banners  of  a 
great  company.  He  told  me,  as  vividly  as  though 
he  had  been  an  eye-witness,  of  how  the  canoes  must 
have  loomed  up  suddenly  from  between  the  islands. 
By  and  by  he  seized  the  lamp  and  conducted  me 
outside,  where  hung  ponderous  ornamental  steel- 
yards, on  which  in  the  old  days  the  peltries  were 
weighed. 

"  It  is  not  so  now,"  said  he ;  "  we  buy  by  count, 
and  modern  scales  weigh  the  provisions.  And  the 
beaver  are  all  gone." 

We  re-entered  the  house  in  silence.  After  a  while 
he  began  briefly  to  sketch  his  own  career.  Then, 
indeed,  the  flavor  of  the  Far  North  breathed  its  crisp 

130 


*'  A  la  Claire  Fontaine  crooned  .  .   .  by  a  man  of  impassive  bulk  and 
countenance,  but  with  glowing  eyes" 


CLOCHE 

bracing  ozone  through  the  atmosphere  of  the  room. 
He  had  started  life  at  one  of  the  posts  of  the  Far 
Northwest.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  enlisted  in  the 
Company.  Throughout  forty  years  he  had  served 
her.  He  had  traveled  to  all  the  strange  places  of  the 
North,  and  claimed  to  have  stood  on  the  shores  of 
that  half-mythical  lake  of  Yamba  Tooh. 

"  It  was  snowing  at  the  time,"  he  said,  prosaically ; 
"  and  I  could  n't  see  anything,  except  that  I  'd  have 
to  bear  to  the  east  to  get  away  from  open  water. 
Maybe  she  was  n't  the  lake.  The  Injins  said  she  was, 
but  I  was  too  almighty  shy  of  grub  to  bother  with 
lakes." 

Other  names  fell  from  him  in  the  course  of  talk, 
some  of  which  I  had  heard  and  some  not,  but  all  of 
which  rang  sweet  and  clear  with  no  uncertain  note 
of  adventure.  Especially  haunts  my  memory  an 
impression  of  desolate  burned  trees  standing  stick- 
like in  death  on  the  shores  of  Lost  River. 

He  told  me  he  had  been  four  years  at  Cloche,  but 
expected  shortly  to  be  transferred,  as  the  fur  was 
getting  scarce,  and  another  post  one  hundred  miles 
to  the  west  could  care  for  the  dwindling  trade.  He 
hoped  to  be  sent  into  the  Northwest,  but  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  he  said  so,  as  though  that  were  in 
the  hands  of  the  gods.  At  the  last  he  fished  out  a 
concertina  and  played  for  me.  Have  you  ever  heard, 
after  dark,  in  the  North  where  the  hills  grow  big 
at  sunset,  a  la  Claire  Fontaine  crooned  to  such  an 

131 


THE  FOREST 

accompaniment,  and  by  a  man  of  impassive  bulk 
and  countenance,  but  with  glowing  eyes  ? 

I  said  good-night,  and  stumbled,  sight-dazed, 
through  the  cool  dark  to  my  tent  near  the  beach. 
The  weird  minor  strains  breathed  after  me  as  I  went. 

**  A  la  claire  fontaine 
M'en  allant  promener, 
J^ai  trouve  V  eau  si  belle 
^e  je  711* y  suis  baigne, 
II  y  a  long  temps  queje  t*  aime 
Jamais  je  ne  t*  oublieraiJ*^ 

The  next  day,  with  the  combers  of  a  howling 
northwesterly  gale  clutching  at  the  stern  of  the  canoe, 
I  rode  in  a  glory  of  spray  and  copper-tasting  excite- 
ment back  to  Dick  and  his  half-breed  settlement. 

But  the  incident  had  its  sequel.  The  following 
season,  as  I  was  sitting  writing  at  my  desk,  a  strange 
package  was  brought  me.  It  was  wrapped  in  linen 
sewn  strongly  with  waxed  cord.  Its  contents  lie  be- 
fore me  now  —  a  pair  of  moccasins  fashioned  of  the 
finest  doeskin,  tanned  so  beautifully  that  the  delicious 
smoke  fragrance  fills  the  room,  and  so  effectively  that 
they  could  be  washed  with  soap  and  water  without 
destroying  their  softness.  The  tongue-shaped  piece 
over  the  instep  is  of  white  fawnskin  heavily  orna- 
mented in  five  colors  of  silk.  Where  it  joins  the 
foot  of  the  slipper  it  is  worked  over  and  over  into  a 
narrow  cord  of  red  and  blue  silk.  The  edge  about 
the  ankle  is  turned  over,  deeply  scalloped,  and  bound 

132 


CLOCHE. 

at  the  top  with  a  broad  band  of  blue  silk  stitched 
with  pink.  Two  tiny  blue  bows  at  either  side  the 
ankle  ornament  the  front.  Altogether  a  most  mag- 
nificent foot-gear.  No  word  accompanied  them,  ap- 
parently, but  after  some  search  I  drew  a  bit  of  paper 
from  the  toe  of  one  of  them.  It  was  inscribed  simply  ; 
"  Fort  la  Cloche." 


THE   HABITANTS 


XI 
THE  HABITANTS 

DURING  my  absence  Dick  had  made  many- 
friends.  Wherein  Hes  his  secret  I  do  not  know, 
but  he  has  a  pecuhar  power  of  ingratiation  with 
people  whose  lives  are  quite  outside  his  experience  or 
sympathies.  In  the  short  space  of  four  days  he  had 
earned  joyous  greetings  from  every  one  in  town.  The 
children  grinned  at  him  cheerfully ;  the  old  women 
cackled  good-natured  little  teasing  jests  to  him  as  he 
passed;  the  pretty,  dusky  half-breed  girls  dropped 
their  eyelashes  fascinatingly  across  their  cheeks,  tem- 
pering their  coyness  with  a  smile ;  the  men  painfully 
demanded  information  as  to  artistic  achievement 
which  was  evidently  as  well  meant  as  it  wa€  foreign 
to  any  real  thirst  for  knowledge  they  might  possess ; 
even  the  lumber-jacks  addressed  him  as  "  Bub."  And 
withal  Dick's  methods  of  approach  were  radically 
wrong,  for  he  blundered  upon  new  acquaintance  with 
a  beaming  smile,  which  is  ordinarily  a  sure  repellent 
to  the  cautious,  taciturn  men  of  the  woods.  Perhaps 
their  keenness  penetrated  to  the  fact  that  he  was  ab- 
solutely without  guile,  and  that  his  kindness  was  an 

137 


THE  FOREST 

essential  part  of  himself.  I  should  be  curious  to  know 
whether  Billy  Knapp  of  the  Black  Hills  would  sur- 
render his  gun  to  Dick  for  inspection. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  out  this  afternoon  to  see  some 
friends  of  mine,"  said  Dick.  "  They  're  on  a  farm 
about  two  miles  back  in  the  brush.  They  're  ancestors." 

"They're  what?"  I  inquired. 

"  Ancestors.  You  can  go  down  to  Grosse  Point 
near  Detroit  and  find  people  living  in  beautiful  coun- 
try places  next  the  water,  and  after  dinner  they  '11 
show  you  an  old  silhouette  or  a  daguerreotype  or 
something  like  that,  and  will  say  to  you  proudly, 
'  This  is  old  Jules,  my  ancestor,  who  was  a  pioneer 
in  this  country.  The  Place  has  been  in  the  family 
ever  since  his  time.' " 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  this  is  a  French  family,  and  they  are  pio- 
neers, and  the  family  has  a  place  that  slopes  down  to  the 
water  through  white  birch-trees,  and  it  is  of  the  kind 
very  tenacious  of  its  own  land.  In  two  hundred  years 
this  will  be  a  great  resort ;  bound  to  be  —  beautiful, 
salubrious,  good  sport,  fine  scenery,  accessible  "  — 

"  Railroad  fifty  miles  away.  Boat  every  once  in  a 
while,"  said  I,  sarcastically. 

"  Accessible  in  two  hundred  years,  all  right,"  in- 
sisted Dick,  serenely.  "  Even  Canada  can  build  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  railway  a  year.  Accessible,"  he 
went  on,  "  good  shipping-point  for  country  now  un- 
developed." 

13S 


THE  HABITANTS 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  real  estate  agent,"  I  advised. 

"  Lived  two  hundred  years  too  soon,"  disclaimed 
Dick.  "  What  more  obvious  ?  These  are  certainly 
ancestors." 

"  Family  may  die  out,"  I  suggested. 

"  It  has  a  good  start,"  said  Dick,  sweetly.  "  There 
are  eighty-seven  in  it  now." 

"  What ! "  I  gasped. 

"One  great-grandfather,  twelve  grandparents, 
thirty-seven  parents,  and  thirty-seven  children,"  tabu- 
lated Dick. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  great-grandfather,"  said 
I ;  "he  must  be  very  old  and  feeble." 

"  He  is  eighty-five  years  old,"  said  Dick,  "  and  the 
last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  engaged  with  an  axe  in 
clearing  trees  off  his  farm." 

All  of  these  astonishing  statements  I  found  to  be 
absolutely  true. 

We  started  out  afoot  soon  after  dinner,  through  a 
scattering  growth  of  popples  that  alternately  drew  the 
veil  of  coyness  over  the  blue  hills  and  caught  our 
breath  with  the  delight  of  a  momentary  prospect. 
Deuce,  remembering  autumn  days,  concluded  par- 
tridges, and  scurried  away  on  the  expert  diagonal,  his 
hind  legs  tucked  well  under  his  flanks.  The  road 
itself  was  a  mere  cutting  through  the  miniature 
woods,  winding  to  right  or  left  for  the  purpose  of 
avoiding  a  log-end  or  a  boulder,  surmounting  little 
knolls  with  an  idle  disregard  for  the  straight  line, 

139 


THE  FOREST 

knobby  with  big  round  stones,  and  interestingly  di-= 
versified  by  circular  mud-holes  a  foot  or  so  in  diame- 
ter. After  a  mile  and  a  half  we  came  to  the  corner  of 
a  snake  fence.  This,  Dick  informed  me,  marked  the 
limits  of  the  "farm." 

We  burst  through  the  screen  of  popples  definitely 
into  the  clear.  A  two-storied  house  of  squared  logs 
crested  a  knoll  in  the  middle  distance.  Ten  acres  of 
grass  marsh,  perhaps  twenty  of  plowed  land,  and  then 
the  ash-white-green  of  popples.  We  dodged  the  grass 
marsh  and  gained  the  house.  Dick  was  at  once  among 
friends. 

The  mother  had  no  English,  so  smiled  expan- 
sively, her  bony  arms  folded  across  her  stomach. 
Her  oldest  daughter,  a  frail-looking  girl  in  the  twen- 
ties, but  with  a  sad  and  spiritual  beauty  of  the  Ma- 
donna in  her  big  eyes  and  straight  black  hair,  gave 
us  a  shy  good-day.  Three  boys,  just  alike  in  their 
slender,  stolid  Indian  good  looks,  except  that  they 
differed  in  size,  nodded  with  the  awkwardness  of  the 
male.  Two  babies  stared  solemnly.  A  little  girl  with 
a  beautiful  oval  face,  large  mischievous  gray  eyes 
behind  long  black  lashes,  a  mischievously  quirked 
mouth  to  match  the  eyes,  and  black  hair  banged 
straight,  both  front  and  behind,  in  almost  medieval 
fashion,  twirked  a  pair  of  brown  bare  legs  all  about 
us.  Another  light-haired,  curly  little  girl,  surmounted 
by  an  old  yachting-cap,  spread  apart  sturdy  shoes  in 
an  attitude  at  once  critical  and  expectant. 

140 


THE  HABITANTS 

Dick  rose  to  the  cx:casion  by  sorting  out  from  some 
concealed  recess  of  his  garments  a  huge  paper  parcel 
of  candy.  With  infinite  tact,  he  presented  this  bag  to 
Madame,  rather  than  the  children.  Madame  insti- 
tuted judicious  distribution  and  appropriate  reserva- 
tion for  the  future.    We  entered  the  cabin. 

Never  have  I  seen  a  place  more  exquisitely  neat. 
The  floor  had  not  only  been  washed  clean,  it  had 
been  scrubbed  white.  The  walls  of  logs  were  freshly 
whitewashed.  The  chairs  were  polished.  The  few 
ornaments  were  new  and  not  at  all  dusty  or  dingy  or 
tawdry.  Several  religious  pictures,  a  portrait  of  roy- 
alty, a  lithographed  advertisement  of  some  buggy,  a 
photograph  or  so  —  and  then  just  the  fresh,  whole^ 
some  cleanliness  of  scrubbed  pine.  Madame  made  us 
welcome  with  smiles  —  a  faded,  lean  woman  with  a 
remnant  of  beauty  peeping  from  her  soft  eyes,  but 
worn  down  to  the  first  principles  of  pioneer  bone  and 
gristle  by  toil,  care,  and  the  bearing  of  children.  I 
spoke  to  her  in  French,  complimenting  her  on  the 
appearance  of  the  place.  She  was  genuinely  pleased, 
saying  in  reply  that  one  did  one's  possible,  but  that 
children  I  —  with  an  expressive  pause. 

Next  we  called  for  volunteers  to  show  us  to  the 
great-grandfather.  Our  elfish  little  girls  at  once  of- 
fered, and  went  dancing  off  down  the  trail  like 
autumn  leaves  in  a  wind.  Whether  it  was  the  Indian 
in  them,  or  the  effects  of  environment,  or  merely  our 
own  imaginations,  we  both  had  the  same  thought 

141 


THE   FOREST 

—  that  in  these  strange,  taciturn,  friendly,  smiling, 
pirouetting  little  creatures  was  some  eerie  wild  strain 
akin  to  the  woods  and  birds  and  animals.  As  they 
danced  on  ahead  of  us,  turning  to  throw  us  a  deli- 
cious smile  or  a  half- veiled  roguish  glance  of  nascent 
coquetry,  we  seemed  to  swing  into  an  orbit  of  expe- 
rience foreign  to  our  own.  These  bright-eyed  woods 
people  were  in  the  last  analysis  as  inscrutable  to  us 
as  the  squirrels. 

We  followed  our  swirling,  airy  guides  down 
through  a  trail  to  another  clearing  planted  with  po- 
tatoes. On  the  further  side  of  this  they  stopped,  hand 
in  hand,  at  the  woods'  fringe,  and  awaited  us  in  a 
startlingly  sudden  repose. 

"  Via  le  gran'pere,"  said  they  in  unison. 

At  the  words  a  huge,  gaunt  man  clad  in  shirt  and 
jeans  arose  and  confronted  us.  Our  first  impression 
was  of  a  vast  framework  stiffened  and  shrunken  into 
the  peculiar  petrifaction  of  age ;  our  second  of  a  Jove- 
like wealth  of  iron-gray  beard  and  hair ;  our  third  of 
eyes,  wide,  clear,  and  tired  with  looking  out  on  a 
century  of  the  world's  time.  His  movements,  as  he 
laid  one  side  his  axe  and  passed  a  great  gnarled  hand 
across  his  forehead,  were  angular  and  slow.  We  knew 
instinctively  the  quality  of  his  work  —  a  deliberate 
pause,  a  mighty  blow,  another  pause,  a  painful  re- 
covery —  labor  compounded  of  infinite  slow  patience, 
but  wonderfully  effective  in  the  week's  result.  It 
would  go  on  without  haste,  without  pause,  inevit- 

142 


He  was  a  Patriarch  " 


THE  HABITANTS 

able  as  the  years  slowly  closing  about  the  toiler.  His 
mental  processes  would  be  of  the  same  fiber.  The  ap- 
parent hesitation  might  seem  to  waste  the  precious 
hours  remaining,  but  in  the  end,  when  the  engine 
started,  it  would  move  surely  and  unswervingly  along 
the  appointed  grooves.  In  his  wealth  of  hair;  in  his 
wide  eyes,  like  the  mysterious  blanks  of  a  marble 
statue ;  in  his  huge  frame,  gnarled  and  wasted  to  the 
strange,  impressive,  powerful  age-quality  of  Phidias's 
old  men,  he  seemed  to  us  to  deserve  a  wreath  and  a 
marble  seat  with  strange  inscriptions  and  the  graceful 
half-draperies  of  another  time  and  a  group  of  old 
Greeks  like  himself  with  whom  to  exchange  slow  sen- 
tences on  the  body  politic.  Indeed,  the  fact  that  his 
seat  was  of  fallen  pine,  and  his  draperies  of  butternut 
brown,  and  his  audience  two  half-breed  children,  an 
artist,  and  a  writer,  and  his  body  politic  two  hundred 
acres  in  the  wilderness,  did  not  filch  from  him  the  im- 
pressiveness  of  his  estate.  He  was  a  Patriarch.  It  did 
not  need  the  park  of  birch-trees,  the  grass  beneath 
them  sloping  down  to  the  water,  the  wooded  knoll 
fairly  insisting  on  a  spacious  mansion,  to  substantiate 
Dick's  fancy  that  he  had  discovered  an  ancestor. 

Neat  piles  of  brush,  equally  neat  piles  of  cord-wood, 
knee-high  stumps  as  cleanly  cut  as  by  a  saw,  attested 
the  old  man's  efficiency.    We  conversed. 

Yes,  said  he,  the  soil  was  good.  It  is  laborious  to 
clear  away  the  forest.  Still,  one  arrives.  M'sieu  has 
but  to  look.    In  the  memory  of  his  oldest  grandson, 

143 


THE  FOREST 

even,  all  this  was  a  forest.  Le  bon  Dieu  had  blessed 
him.  His  family  was  large.  Yes,  it  was  as  M'sieu 
said,  eighty-seven  —  that  is,  counting  himself  The 
soil  was  not  wonderful.  It  is  indeed  a  large  family, 
and  much  labor,  but  somehow  there  was  always  food 
for  all.  For  his  part  he  had  a  great  pity  for  those 
whom  God  had  not  blessed.  It  must  be  very  lone- 
some without  children. 

We  spared  a  private  thought  that  this  old  man  was 
certainly  in  no  danger  of  loneliness. 

Yes,  he  went  on,  he  was  old  —  eighty-five.  He 
was  not  as  quick  as  he  used  to  be ;  he  left  that  for 
the  young  ones.  Still,  he  could  do  a  day's  work.  He 
was  most  proud  to  have  made  these  gentlemen's  ac- 
quaintance.   He  wished  us  good-day. 

We  left  him  seated  on  the  pine-log,  his  axe  be- 
tween his  knees,  his  great  gnarled  brown  hands  hang- 
ing idly.  After  a  time  we  heard  the  whack  of  his 
implement;  then  after  another  long  time  we  heard  it 
whack  again.  We  knew  that  those  two  blows  had 
gone  straight  and  true  and  forceful  to  the  mark.  So 
old  a  man  had  no  energy  to  expend  in  the  indirec- 
tions of  haste. 

Our  elfish  guides  led  us  back  along  the  trail  to 
the  farm-house.  A  girl  of  thirteen  had  just  arrived 
from  school.  In  the  summer  the  little  ones  divided 
the  educational  advantages  among  themselves,  turn 
and  turn  about. 

The  newcomer  had  been  out  into  the  world  and 
144 


THE  HABITANTS 

was  dressed  accordingly.  A  neat  dark-blue  cloth 
dress,  plainly  made,  a  dull  red  and  blue  checked 
apron ;  a  broad  round  hat,  shoes  and  stockings,  all  in 
the  best  and  quietest  taste  —  marked  contrast  to  the 
usual  garish  Sunday-best  of  the  Anglo-Saxon.  She 
herself  exemplified  the  most  striking  type  of  beauty 
to  be  found  in  the  mixed  bloods.  Her  hair  was  thick 
and  glossy  and  black  in  the  mode  that  throws  deep 
purple  shadows  under  the  rolls  and  coils.  Her  face 
was  a  regular  oval,  like  the  opening  in  a  wishbone 
Her  skin  was  dark,  but  rich  and  dusky  with  life  and 
red  blood  that  ebbed  and  flowed  with  her  shyness. 
Her  lips  were  full,  and  of  a  dark  cherry  red.  Her  eyes 
were  deep,  rather  musing,  and  furnished  with  the  most 
gloriously  tangling  of  eyelashes.  Dick  went  into  ec- 
stasies, took  several  photographs  which  did  not  turn 
out  well,  and  made  one  sketch  which  did.  Perpetu- 
ally did  he  bewail  the  absence  of  oils.  The  type  is 
not  uncommon,  but  its  beauty  rarely  remains  perfect 
after  the  fifteenth  year. 

We  made  our  ceremonious  adieux  to  the  Madame, 
and  started  back  to  town  under  the  guidance  of  one 
of  the  boys,  who  promised  us  a  short  cut. 

This  youth  proved  to  be  filled  with  the  old  wan- 
dering spirit  that  lures  so  many  of  his  race  into  the 
wilderness  life.  He  confided  to  us  as  we  walked  that 
he  liked  to  tramp  extended  distances,  and  that  the 
days  were  really  not  made  long  enough  for  those  who 
had  to  return  home  at  night. 

MS 


THE  FOREST 

"  I  is  been  top  of  dose  hills,"  he  said.  "  Bime  by  I 
mak'  heem  go  to  dose  lak'  beyon'. " 

He  told  us  that  some  day  he  hoped  to  go  out  with 
the  fur  traders.  In  his  vocabulary  "  I  wish  "  occurred 
with  such  wistful  frequency  that  finally  I  inquired 
curiously  what  use  he  would  make  of  the  Fairy  Gift. 

"  If  you  could  have  just  one  wish  come  true, 
Pierre,"  I  asked,  "  what  would  you  desire  ?  " 

His  answer  came  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"  I  is  lak*  be  one  giant,"  said  he. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"So  I  can  mak'  heem  de  walk  far,"  he  replied, 
simply. 

I  was  tempted  to  point  out  to  him  the  fact  that 
big  men  do  not  outlast  the  little  men,  and  that  vast 
strength  rarely  endures,  but  then  a  better  feeling  per- 
suaded me  to  leave  him  his  illusions.  The  power, 
even  in  fancy,  of  striding  on  seven-league  boots  across 
the  fascinations  spread  out  below  his  kindling  vision 
from  "dose  hills"  was  too  precious  a  possession 
lightly  to  be  taken  away. 

Strangely  enough,  though  his  woodcraft  naturally 
was  not  inconsiderable,  it  did  not  hold  his  paramount 
interest.  He  knew  something  about  animals  and 
their  ways  and  their  methods  of  capture,  but  the 
chase  did  not  appeal  strongly  to  him,  nor  apparently 
did  he  possess  much  skill  along  that  line.  He^  liked 
the  actual  physical  labor,  the  walking,  the  paddling, 
the  tump-line,  the  camp-making,  the  new  country, 

146 


THE  HABITANTS 

the  companionship  of  the  wild  h*fe,  the  wilderness  as 
a  whole  rather  than  in  any  one  of  its  single  aspects 
as  Fish  Pond,  Game  Preserve,  Picture  Gallery.  In 
this  he  showed  the  true  spirit  of  the  voyageur.  I 
should  confidently  look  to  meet  him  in  another  ten 
years  —  if  threats  of  railroads  spare  the  Far  North  so 
long  —  girdled  with  the  red  sash,  shod  in  silent  moc- 
casins, bending  beneath  the  portage  load,  trolling 
Isabeau  to  the  silent  land  somewhere  under  the 
Arctic  Circle.  The  French  of  the  North  have  never 
been  great  fighters  nor  great  hunters,  in  the  terms  of 
Anglo-Saxon  frontiersmen,  but  they  have  laughed  in 
£irther  places. 


14; 


THE   RIVER 


XII 
THE  RIVER 

AT  a  certain  spot  on  the  North  Shore  —  I  am 
not  going  to  tell  you  where  —  you  board  one 
of  the  two  or  three  fishing-steamers  that  collect  from 
the  different  stations  the  big  ice-boxes  of  Lake  Supe- 
rior whitefish.  After  a  certain  number  of  hours  —  I 
am  not  going  to  tell  you  how  many  —  your  craft 
will  turn  in  toward  a  semicircle  of  bold,  beautiful 
hills,  that  seem  at  first  to  be  many  less  miles  distant 
than  the  reality,  and  at  the  last  to  be  many  more 
miles  remote  than  is  the  fact.  From  the  prow  you 
will  make  out  first  a  uniform  velvet  green ;  then  the 
differentiation  of  many  shades ;  then  the  dull  neutrals 
of  rocks  and  crags ;  finally  the  narrow  white  of  a 
pebble  beach  against  which  the  waves  utter  continu- 
ally a  rattling  undertone.  The  steamer  pushes  boldly 
in.  The  cool  green  of  the  water  underneath  changes 
to  gray.  Suddenly  you  make  out  the  bottom,  as 
through  a  thick  green  glass,  and  the  big  suckers  and 
catfish  idling  over  its  riffled  sands,  inconceivably  far 
down  through  the  unbelievably  clear  liquid.  So  ab- 
sorbed are  you  in  this  marvelous  clarity  that  a  slight 

IS  I 


THE  FOREST 

grinding  jar  alone  brings  you  to  yourself.  The 
steamer's  nose  is  actually  touching  the  white  strip  of 
pebbles ! 

Now  you  can  do  one  of  a  number  of  things.  The 
forest  slants  down  to  your  feet  in  dwindling  scrub, 
which  half  conceals  an  abandoned  log  structure. 
This  latter  is  the  old  Hudson's  Bay  post.  Behind  it 
is  the  Fur  Trail,  and  the  Fur  Trail  will  take  you 
three  miles  to  Burned  Rock  Pool,  where  are  spring 
water  and  mighty  trout.  But  again,  half  a  mile  to 
the  left,  is  the  mouth  of  the  River.  And  the  River 
meanders  charmingly  through  the  woods  of  the  flat 
country  over  numberless  riffles  and  rapids,  beneath 
various  steep  gravel  banks,  until  it  sweeps  boldly 
under  the  cliff  of  the  first  high  hill.  There  a  rugged 
precipice  rises  sheer  and  jagged  and  damp-dark  to 
overhanging  trees  clinging  to  the  shoulder  of  the 
mountain.  And  precisely  at  that  spot  is  a  bend  where 
the  water  hits  square,  to  divide  right  and  left  in 
whiteness,  to  swirl  into  convolutions  of  foam,  to  lurk 
darkly  for  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  tumult  before 
racing  away.  And  there  you  can  stand  hip-deep,  and 
just  reach  the  eddy  foam  with  a  cast  tied  craftily  of 
Royal  Coachman,  Parmachenee  Belle,  and  Montreal. 

From  that  point  you  are  with  the  hills.  They  draw 
back  to  leave  wide  forest,  but  always  they  return  to 
the  River  —  as  you  would  return  season  after  season 
were  I  to  tell  you  how — throwing  across  your  woods- 
progress  a  sheer  cliff  forty  or  fifty  feet  high,  shouldering 

152 


THE  RIVER 

you  incontinently  into  the  necessity  of  fording  to  the 
other  side.  More  and  more  jealous  they  become  as 
you  penetrate,  until  at  the  Big  Falls  they  close  in 
entirely,  warning  you  that  here  they  take  the  wilder- 
ness to  themselves.  At  the  Big  Falls  anglers  make 
their  last  camp.  About  the  fire  they  may  discuss  idly 
various  academic  questions  —  as  to  whether  the  great 
inaccessible  pool  below  the  Falls  really  contains  the 
legendary  Biggest  Trout ;  what  direction  the  River 
takes  above ;  whether  it  really  becomes  nothing  but 
a  series  of  stagnant  pools  connected  by  sluggish  water- 
reaches  ;  whether  there  are  any  trout  above  the  Falls ; 
and  so  on. 

These  questions,  as  I  have  said,  are  merely  aca- 
demic. Your  true  angler  is  a  philosopher.  Enough 
is  to  him  worth  fifteen  courses,  and  if  the  finite  mind 
of  man  could  imagine  anything  to  be  desired  as  an 
addition  to  his  present  possessions  on  the  River,  he 
at  least  knows  nothing  of  it.  Already  he  commands 
ten  miles  of  water  —  swift,  clear  water  —  running 
over  stone,  through  a  freshet  bed  so  many  hundreds 
of  feet  wide  that  he  has  forgotten  what  it  means  to 
guard  his  back  cast.  It  is  to  be  waded  in  the  riffles,  so 
that  he  can  cross  from  one  shore  to  the  other  as  the 
mood  suits  him.  One  bank  is  apt  to  be  precipitous,  the 
other  to  stretch  away  in  a  mile  or  so  of  the  coolest, 
greenest,  stillest  primeval  forest  to  be  imagined.  Thus 
he  can  cut  across  the  wide  bends  of  the  River,  should 
he  so  desire,  and  should  haste  be  necessary  to  make 

«53 


THE  FOREST 

camp  before  dark.  And,  last,  but  not  least  by  any 
manner  of  means,  there  are  trout. 

I  mean  real  trout  —  big  fellows,  the  kind  the  fish- 
ers of  little  streams  dream  of  but  awake  to  call  Mor- 
pheus a  liar,  just  as  they  are  too  polite  to  call  you  a 
liar  when  you  are  so  indiscreet  as  to  tell  them  a  few 
plain  facts.  I  have  one  solemnly  attested  and  witnessed 
record  of  twenty-nine  inches,  caught  in  running  water. 
I  saw  a  friend  land  on  one  cast  three  whose  aggre- 
gate weight  was  four  and  one  half  pounds.  I  wit- 
nessed, and  partly  shared,  an  exciting  struggle  in 
which  three  fish  on  three  rods  were  played  in  the  same 
pool  at  the  same  time.  They  weighed  just  fourteen 
pounds.  One  pool,  a  backset,  was  known  as  the  Idiot's 
Delight,  because  any  one  could  catch  fish  there.  I  have 
lain  on  my  stomach  at  the  Burned  Rock  Pool  and 
seen  the  great  fish  lying  so  close  together  as  nearly  to 
cover  the  bottom,  rank  after  rank  of  them,  and  the 
smallest  not  under  a  half  pound.  As  to  the  largest  — 
well,  every  true  fisherman  knows  him ! 

So  it  came  about  for  many  years  that  the  natural  bar- 
rier interposed  by  the  Big  Falls  successfully  turned  the 
idle  tide  of  anglers'  exploration.  Beyond  them  lay  an 
unknown  country,  but  you  had  to  climb  cruelly  to 
see  it,  and  you  could  n't  gain  above  what  you  already 
had  in  any  case.  The  nearest  settlement  was  nearly 
sixty  miles  away,  so  even  added  isolation  had  not  its 
usual  quickening  effect  on  camper's  effort.  The  River 
is  visited  by  few,  anyway.  An  occasional  adventurous 

»S4 


THE  RIVER 

steam  yacht  pauses  at  the  mouth,  fishes  a  few  little 
ones  from  the  shallow  pools  there,  or  a  few  big  ones 
from  the  reefs,  and  pushes  on.  It  never  dreams  of 
sending  an  expedition  to  the  interior.  Our  own  peo- 
ple, and  two  other  parties,  are  all  I  know  of  who  visit 
the  River  regularly.  Our  camp-sites  alone  break  the 
forest ;  our  blazes  alone  continue  the  initial  short  cut 
of  the  Fur  Trail;  our  names  alone  distinguish  the 
various  pools.  We  had  always  been  satisfied  to  com- 
promise with  the  frowning  Hills.  In  return  for  the 
delicious  necks  and  points  and  forest  areas  through 
which  our  clipped  trails  ran,  we  had  tacitly  respected 
the  mystery  of  the  upper  reaches. 

This  year,  however,  a  number  of  unusual  condi- 
tions changed  our  spirit.  I  have  perhaps  neglected 
to  state  that  our  trip  up  to  now  had  been  a  rather 
singularly  damp  one.  Of  the  first  fourteen  days 
twelve  had  been  rainy.  This  was  only  a  slightly  ex- 
aggerated sample  for  the  rest  of  the  time.  As  a  con- 
sequence we  found  the  River  filled  even  to  the  limit 
of  its  freshet  banks.  The  broad  borders  of  stone 
beach  between  the  stream's  edge  and  the  bushes  had 
quite  disappeared ;  the  riffles  had  become  rapids,  and 
the  rapids  roaring  torrents ;  the  bends  boiled  angrily 
with  a  smashing  eddy  that  sucked  air  into  pirouetting 
cavities  inches  in  depth.  Plainly,  fly-fishing  was  out 
of  the  question.  No  self-respecting  trout  would  rise 
to  the  surface  of  such  a  moil,  or  abandon  for  sylla- 
bubs of  tinsel  the  magnificent  solidities  of  ground- 


THE  FOREST 

bait  such  a  freshet  would  bring  down  from  the  hills. 
Also  the  River  was  unfordablc. 

We  made  camp  at  the  mouth  ani  consulted  to- 
gether. Billy,  the  half-breed  who  had  joined  us  for 
the  labor  of  a  permanent  camp,  shook  his  head. 

"I  fink  one  week,  ten  day,"  he  vouchsafed. 
•'  P'rhaps  she  go  down  den.    We  mus'  wait." 

We  did  not  want  to  wait ;  the  idleness  of  a  per- 
manent camp  is  the  most  deadly  in  the  world. 

"  Billy,"  said  I,  "  have  you  ever  been  above  the 
Big  Falls?" 

The  half-breed's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Non,"  he  replied,  simply.  "Ba,  I  lak'  mak'  hecm 
firs'  rate." 

"  All  right,  Billy;  we  '11  do  it." 

The  next  day  it  rained,  and  the  River  went  up  two 
inches.  The  morning  following  was  fair  enough,  but 
so  cold  you  could  see  your  breath.  We  began  to 
experiment. 

Now,  this  expedition  had  become  a  fishing  vaca- 
tion, so  we  had  all  the  comforts  of  home  with  us. 
When  said  comforts  of  home  were  laden  into  the 
canoe,  there  remained  forward  and  aft  just  about  one 
square  foot  of  space  for  Billy  and  me,  and  not  over 
two  inches  of  freeboard  for  the  River.  We  could 
not  stand  up  and  pole ;  tracking  with  a  tow-line  was 
out  of  the  question,  because  there  existed  no  banks 
on  which  to  walk ;  the  current  was  too  swift:  for  pad- 
dling.   So  we  knelt  and  poled.    We  knew  it  before, 

156 


THE  RIVER 

but  wc  had  to  be  convinced  by  trial  that  two  inches 
of  freeboard  will  dip  under  the  most  gingerly  effort. 
It  did  so.  We  groaned,  stepped  out  into  ice-water 
up  to  our  waists,  and  so  began  the  day's  journey  with 
fleeting  reference  to  Dante's  nethermost  hell. 

Next  the  shore  the  water  was  most  of  the  time  a 
little  above  our  knees,  but  the  swirl  of  a  rushing  cur- 
rent brought  an  apron  of  foam  to  our  hips.  Billy  took 
the  bow  and  pulled ;  I  took  the  stern  and  pushed. 
In  places  our  combined  efforts  could  but  just  coun- 
terbalance the  strength  of  the  current.  Then  Billy 
had  to  hang  on  until  I  could  get  my  shoulder  against 
the  stern  for  a  mighty  heave,  the  few  inches  gain  of 
which  he  would  guard  as  jealously  as  possible,  until 
I  could  get  into  position  for  another  shove.  At  other 
places  we  were  in  nearly  to  our  armpits,  but  close 
under  the  banks  where  we  could  help  ourselves  by 
seizing  bushes. 

Sometimes  I  lost  my  footing  entirely  and  trailed 
out  behind  like  a  streamer ;  sometimes  Billy  would 
be  swept  away,  the  canoe's  bow  would  swing  down- 
stream, and  I  would  have  to  dig  my  heels  and  hang 
on  until  he  had  floundered  upright.  Fortunately  for 
our  provisions,  this  never  happened  to  both  at  the 
same  time.  The  difflculties  were  still  further  com- 
plicated by  the  fact  that  our  feet  speedily  became  so 
numb  from  the  cold  that  we  could  not  feel  the  bot- 
tom, and  so  were  much  inclined  to  aimless  stum- 
blings.  By  and  by  we  got  out  and  kicked  trees  to 

157 


THE  FOREST 

start  the  circulation.  In  the  mean  time  the  sun  had 
retired  behind  thick  leaden  clouds. 

At  the  First  Bend  we  were  forced  to  carry  some 
fifty  feet.  There  the  River  rushed  down  in  a  smooth 
apron  straight  against  the  cliff,  where  its  force  actually 
raised  the  mass  of  water  a  good  three  feet  higher  than 
the  level  of  the  surrounding  pool.  I  tied  on  a  bait- 
hook,  and  two  cartridges  for  sinkers,  and  in  fifteen 
minutes  had  caught  three  trout,  one  of  which  weighed 
three  pounds,  and  the  others  two  pounds  and  a  pound 
and  a  half  respectively.  At  this  point  Dick  and  Deuce, 
who  had  been  paralleling  through  the  woods,  joined 
us.  We  broiled  the  trout,  and  boiled  tea,  and  shivered 
as  near  the  fire  as  we  could.  That  afternoon,  by  dint 
of  labor  and  labor,  and  yet  more  labor,  we  made 
Burned  Rock,  and  there  we  camped  for  the  night, 
utterly  beaten  out  by  about  as  hard  a  day's  travel  as 
a  man  would  want  to  undertake. 

The  following  day  was  even  worse,  for  as  the  nat- 
ural bed  of  the  River  narrowed,  we  found  less  and 
less  footing  and  swifter  and  swifter  water.  The  jour- 
ney to  Burned  Rock  had  been  a  matter  of  dogged 
hard  work ;  this  was  an  affair  of  alertness,  of  taking 
advantage  of  every  little  eddy,  of  breathless  suspense 
during  long  seconds  while  the  question  of  supremacy 
between  our  strength  and  the  stream's  was  being  de- 
bated. And  the  thermometer  must  have  registered 
well  towards  freezing.  Three  times  we  were  forced 
to  cross  the  River  in  order  to  get  even  precarious 

158 


•f 

a 
I 

M 
« 

I 

CO 


THE  RIVER 

footing.  Those  were  the  really  doubtful  moments. 
We  had  to  get  in  carefully,  to  sit  craftily,  and  to 
paddle  gingerly  and  firmly,  without  attempting  to 
counteract  the  downward  sweep  of  the  current.  All 
our  energies  and  care  were  given  to  preventing  those 
miserable  curling  little  waves  from  overtopping  our 
precious  two  inches,  and  that  miserable  little  canoe 
from  departing  even  by  a  hair's  breadth  from  the 
exactly  level  keel.  Where  we  were  going  did  not 
matter.  After  an  interminable  interval  the  tail  of 
our  eyes  would  catch  the  sway  of  bushes  near  at 
hand. 

"  Now,"  Billy  would  mutter  abstractedly. 

With  one  accord  we  would  arise  from  six  inches 
of  wet  and  step  swiftly  into  the  River.  The  lightened 
canoe  would  strain  back ;  we  would  brace  our  legs. 
The  traverse  was  accomplished. 

Being  thus  under  the  other  bank,  I  would  hold  the 
canoe  while  Billy,  astraddle  the  other  end  for  the  pur- 
pose of  depressing  the  water  to  within  reach  of  his 
hand,  would  bail  away  the  consequences  of  our  cross- 
ing. Then  we  would  make  up  the  quarter  of  a  mile 
we  had  lost. 

We  quit  at  the  Organ  Pool  about  three  o'clock  of 
the  afternoon.   Not  much  was  said  that  evening. 

The  day  following  we  tied  into  it  again.  This  time 
we  put  Dick  and  Deuce  on  an  old  Indian  trail  that 
promised  a  short  cut,  with  instructions  to  wait  at  the 
end  of  it.    In  the  joyous  anticipation  of  another  wet 

IS9 


THE  FOREST 

day  we  forgot  they  had  never  before  followed  an  In- 
dian trail.  Let  us  now  turn  aside  to  the  adventures 
of  Dick  and  Deuce. 

Be  it  premised  here  that  Dick  is  a  regular  Indian 
of  taciturnity  when  it  becomes  a  question  of  his 
own  experience,  so  that  for  a  long  time  we  knew  of 
what  follows  but  the  single  explanatory  monosyl- 
lable which  you  shall  read  in  due  time.  But  Dick  has 
a  beloved  uncle.  In  moments  of  expansion  to  this 
relative  after  his  return  he  held  forth  as  to  the  hap- 
penings of  that  morning. 

Dick  and  the  setter  managed  the  Indian  trail  for 
about  twenty  rods.  They  thought  they  managed  it 
for  perhaps  twice  that  distance.  Then  it  became 
borne  in  on  them  that  the  bushes  bent  back,  the  faint 
knife-clippings,  and  the  half  weather-browned  brush- 
cuttings  that  alone  constitute  an  Indian  trail  had  taken 
another  direction,  and  that  they  had  now  their  own 
way  to  make  through  the  forest.  Dick  knew  the 
direction  well  enough,  so  he  broke  ahead  confidently. 
After  a  half-hour's  walk  he  crossed  a  tiny  streamlet. 
After  another  half-hour's  walk  he  came  to  another. 
It  was  flowing  the  wrong  way. 

Dick  did  not  understand  this.  He  had  never  known 
of  little  streams  flowing  away  from  rivers  and  towards 
eight-hundred-foot  hills.  This  might  be  a  loop,  of 
course.  He  resolved  to  follow  it  upstream  far  enough 
to  settle  the  point.  The  following  brought  him  in 
time  to  a  soggy  little  thicket  with  three  areas  of  moss- 

x6o 


THE  RIVER 

covered  mud  and  two  round,  pellucid  pools  of  water 
about  a  foot  in  diameter.  As  the  little  stream  had 
wound  and  twisted,  Dick  had  by  now  lost  entirely 
his  sense  of  direction.  He  fished  out  his  compass  and 
set  it  on  a  rock.  The  River  flows  nearly  northeast  to 
the  Big  Falls,  and  Dick  knew  himself  to  be  some- 
where east  of  the  River.  The  compass  appeared  to 
be  wrong.  Dick  was  a  youth  of  sense,  so  he  did  not 
quarrel  with  the  compass ;  he  merely  became  doubt- 
ful as  to  which  was  the  north  end  of  the  needle  —  the 
white  or  the  black.  After  a  few  moments'  puzzling 
he  was  quite  at  sea,  and  could  no  more  remember 
how  he  had  been  taught  as  to  this  than  you  can  clinch 
the  spelling  of  a  doubtful  word  after  you  have  tried 
on  paper  a  dozen  variations.  But  being  a  youth  of 
sense,  he  did  not  desert  the  streamlet. 

After  a  short  hali^mile  of  stumbling  the  apparent 
wrong  direction  in  the  brook's  bed,  he  came  to  the 
River.  The  River  was  also  flowing  the  wrong  way, 
and  uphill.  Dick  sat  down  and  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  as  I  had  told  him  to  do  in  like  instance, 
and  so  managed  to  swing  the  country  around  where 
it  belonged. 

Now  here  was  the  River  —  and  Dick  resolved  to 
desert  it  for  no  more  short  cuts  —  but  where  was  the 
canoe  ? 

This  point  remained  unsettled  in  Dick's  mind,  or 
rather  it  was  alternately  settled  in  two  ways.  Some- 
times the  boy  concluded  we  must  be  still  below  him, 

i6i 


THE  FOREST 

so  he  would  sit  on  a  rock  to  wait.  Then,  after  a  few 
moments,  inactivity  would  bring  him  panic.  The 
canoe  must  have  passed  this  point  long  since,  and 
every  second  he  wasted  stupidly  sitting  on  that  stone 
separated  him  farther  from  his  friends  and  from  food. 
Then  he  would  tear  madly  through  the  forest.  Deuce 
enjoyed  this  game,  but  Dick  did  not. 

In  time  Dick  found  his  further  progress  along  the 
banks  cut  off  by  a  hill.  The  hill  ended  abruptly  at 
the  water's  edge  in  a  sheer  rock  cliff  thirty  feet  high. 
This  was  in  reality  the  end  of  the  Indian  trail  short 
cut  —  the  point  where  Dick  was  to  meet  us  —  but  he 
did  not  know  it.  He  happened  for  the  moment  to  be 
obsessed  by  one  of  his  canoe-upstream  panics,  so  he 
turned  inland  to  a  spot  where  the  hill  appeared  climb- 
able,  and  started  in  to  surmount  the  obstruction. 

This  was  comparatively  easy  at  first.  Then  the 
shoulder  of  the  cliff  intervened.  Dick  mounted  still  a 
little  higher  up  the  hill,  then  higher,  then  still  higher. 
Far  down  to  his  left,  through  the  trees,  broiled  the 
River.  The  slope  of  the  hill  to  it  had  become  steeper 
than  a  roof,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  eaves  came  a  cliff 
drop  of  thirty  feet.  Dick  picked  his  way  gingerly 
over  curving  moss-beds,  assisting  his  balance  by  a 
number  of  little  cedar-trees.  Then  something  hap- 
pened. 

Dick  says  the  side  of  the  hill  slid  out  from  under 
him.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  probably,  the  skin- 
moss  over  loose  rounded  stones  gave  way.   Dick  sat 

162 


THE  RIVER 

down  and  began  slowly  to  bump  down  the  slant  of 
the  roof.  He  never  really  lost  his  equilibrium,  nor 
until  the  last  ten  feet  did  he  abandon  the  hope  of 
checking  his  descent.  Sometimes  he  did  actually  suc- 
ceed in  stopping  himself  for  a  moment;  but  on  his 
attempting  to  follow  up  the  advantage,  the  moss 
always  slipped  or  the  sapling  let  go  a  tenuous  hold 
and  he  continued  on  down.  At  last  the  River  flashed 
out  below  him.  He  saw  the  sheer  drop.  He  saw  the 
boiling  eddies  of  the  Halfway  Pool,  capable  of  suck- 
ing down  a  saw-log.  Then,  with  a  final  rush  of  loose 
round  stones,  he  shot  the  chutes  feet  first  into  space. 

In  the  mean  time  Billy  and  I  repeated  our  experi- 
ence of  the  two  previous  days,  with  a  few  variations 
caused  by  the  necessity  of  passing  two  exceptionally 
ugly  rapids  whose  banks  left  little  footing.  We  did 
this  precariously,  with  a  rope.  The  cold  water  was 
beginning  to  tell  on  our  vitality,  so  that  twice  we 
went  ashore  and  made  hot  tea.  Just  below  the  Half- 
way Pool  we  began  to  do  a  little  figuring  ahead, 
which  is  a  bad  thing.  The  Halfway  Pool  meant 
much  inevitable  labor,  with  its  two  swift  rapids  and 
its  swirling  eddies,  as  sedulously  to  be  avoided  as 
so  many  steel  bear-traps.  Then  there  were  a  dozen 
others,  and  the  three  miles  of  rifl^es,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  At  our  present  rate  it  would  take  us  a  week  to 
make  the  Falls. 

Below  the  Halfway  Pool  we  looked  for  Dick. 
He  was  not  to  be  seen.    This  made  us  cross.   At  the 

163 


THE  FOREST 

Halfway  Pool  we  intended  to  unload  for  portage, 
and  also  to  ferry  over  Dick  and  the  setter  in  the  light- 
ened canoe.   The  tardiness  of  Dick  delayed  the  game. 

However,  we  drew  ashore  to  the  little  clearing  of 
the  Halfway  Camp,  made  the  year  before,  and  wearily 
discharged  our  cargo.  Suddenly,  upstream,  and  ap- 
parently up  in  the  air,  we  heard  distinctly  the  excited 
yap  of  a  dog.  Billy  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  Then 
we  looked  upstream. 

Close  under  the  perpendicular  wall  of  rock  and 
fifty  feet  from  the  end  of  it,  waist  deep  in  water  that 
swirled  angrily  about  him,  stood  Dick. 

I  knew  well  enough  what  he  was  standing  on  —  a 
little  ledge  of  shale  not  over  five  or  six  feet  in  length 
and  two  feet  wide  —  for  in  lower  water  I  had  often 
from  its  advantage  cast  a  fly  down  below  the  big 
boulder.  But  I  knew  it  to  be  surrounded  by  water 
fifteen  feet  deep.  It  was  impossible  to  wade  to  the 
spot ;  impossible  to  swim  to  it.  And  why  in  the  name 
of  all  the  woods  gods  would  a  man  want  to  wade  or 
swim  to  it  if  he  could  ?  The  affair,  to  our  cold-be- 
numbed intellects,  was  simply  incomprehensible. 

Billy  and  I  spoke  no  word.  We  silently,  perhaps 
a  little  fearfully,  launched  the  empty  canoe.  Then  we 
went  into  a  space  of  water  whose  treading  proved  us 
no  angels.  From  the  slack  water  under  the  cliff  we 
took  another  look.  It  was  indeed  Dick.  He  carried 
a  rod-case  in  one  hand.  His  fish-creel  lay  against  his 
hip.   His  broad  hat  sat  accurately  level  on  his  head. 

164 


THE  RIVER 

His  face  was  imperturbable.  Above,  Deuce  agon- 
ized, afraid  to  leap  into  the  stream,  but  convinced  that 
his  duty  required  him  to  do  so. 

We  steadied  the  canoe  while  Dick  climbed  in. 
You  would  have  thought  he  was  embarking  at  the 
regularly  appointed  rendezvous.  In  silence  we  shot 
the  rapids,  and  collected  Deuce  from  the  end  of  the 
trail,  whither  he  followed  us.  In  silence  we  worked 
our  way  across  to  where  our  duffel  lay  scattered.  In 
silence  we  disembarked. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  Dick,"  I  demanded  at  last, 
"  how  did  you  get  there  ?  " 

"  Fell,"  said  he,  succinctly.   And  that  was  all. 


i«S 


THE  HILLS 


XIII 
THE  HILLS 

WE  explained  carefully  to  Dick  that  he  had  lit 
on  the  only  spot  in  the  Halfway  Pool  where 
the  water  was  at  once  deep  enough  to  break  his  fall 
and  not  too  deep  to  stand  in.  We  also  pointed  out 
that  he  had  escaped  being  telescoped  or  drowned  by 
the  merest  hair's  breadth.  From  this  we  drew  moral 
conclusions.  It  did  us  good,  but  undoubtedly  Dick 
knew  it  already. 

Now  we  gave  our  attention  to  the  wetness  of  gar- 
ments, for  we  were  chilled  blue.  A  big  fire  and  a 
clothes-rack  of  forked  sticks  and  a  sapling,  an  open- 
air  change,  a  lunch  of  hot  tea  and  trout  and  cold 
galette  and  beans,  a  pipe  —  and  then  the  inevitable 
summing  up. 

We  had  in  two  and  a  half  days  made  the  easier 
half  of  the  distance  to  the  Falls.  At  this  rate  we  would 
consume  a  week  or  more  in  reaching  the  starting- 
point  of  our  explorations.  It  was  a  question  whether 
we  could  stand  a  week  of  ice-water  and  the  heavy 
labor  combined.  Ordinarily  we  might  be  able  to 
abandon  the  canoe  and  push  on  afoot,  as  we  were 

169 


THE  FOREST 

accustomed  to  do  when  trout-fishing,  but  that  in- 
volved fording  the  river  three  times  —  a  feat  mani- 
festly impossible  in  present  freshet  conditions. 

"  I  t'ink  we  quit  heem,"  said  Billy. 

But  then  I  was  seized  with  an  inspiration.  Judg- 
ing by  the  configuration  of  the  hills,  the  River  bent 
sharply  above  the  Falls.  Why  would  it  hot  be  pos- 
sible to  cut  loose  entirely  at  this  point,  to  strike  across 
through  the  forest,  and  so  to  come  out  on  the  upper 
reaches  ?  Remained  only  the  probability  of  our  be- 
ing able,  encumbered  by  a  pack,  to  scale  the  moun- 
tains. 

"  Billy,"  said  I, "  have  you  ever  been  over  in  those 
hills  ^» 

"  No,"  said  he. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  country  ?  Are 
there  any  trails  ?  " 

"  Dat  countree  is  belong  Tawabinisay.  He  know 
heem.  I  don'  know  heem.  I  t'ink  he  is  have  many 
hills,  some  lak'." 

"Do  you  think  we  can  climb  those  hills  with 
packs?" 

Billy  cast  a  doubtful  glance  on  Dick.  Then  his 
eye  lit  up. 

"  Tawabinisay  is  tell  me  'bout  dat  Lak'  Kawagama. 
P'rhaps  we  fine  heem." 

In  so  saying  Billy  decided  the  attempt.  What 
angler  on  the  River  has  not  discussed  —  again  idly, 
again  academically  —  that  mysterious  Lake  alive  with 

170 


THE  HILLS 

the  burnished  copper  trout  —  lying  hidden  and  won- 
derful in  the  high  hills,  clear  as  crystal,  bottomed  with 
gravel  like  a  fountain,  shaped  like  a  great  crescent 
whose  curves  were  haunted  of  forest  trees  grim  and 
awesome  with  the  solemnity  of  the  primeval  ?  That 
its  exact  location  was  known  to  Tawabinisay  alone, 
that  the  trail  to  it  was  purposely  blinded  and  mud- 
dled with  the  crossing  of  many  little  ponds,  that  the 
route  was  laborious  —  all  those  things,  along  with  the 
minor  details  so  dear  to  winter  fire-chats,  were  mat- 
ters of  notoriety.  Probably  more  expeditions  to  Ka- 
wagama  have  been  planned  —  in  February  —  than 
would  fill  a  volume  with  an  account  of  anticipated 
adventures.  Only,  none  of  them  ever  came  off.  We 
were  accustomed  to  gaze  at  the  forbidden  cliff  ram- 
parts of  the  hills,  to  think  of  the  Idiot's  Delight,  and 
the  Halfway  Pool,  and  the  Organ  Pool,  and  the 
Burned  Rock  Pool,  and  the  Rolling  Stone  Pool,  and 
all  the  rest  of  them  even  up  to  the  Big  Falls  —  and 
so  we  would  quietly  allow  our  February  plannings  to 
lapse.  One  man  Tawabinisay  had  honored.  But  this 
man,  named  Clement,  a  banker  from  Peoria,  had 
proved  unworthy.  Tawabinisay  told  how  he  caught 
trout,  many,  many  trout,  and  piled  them  on  the 
shores  of  Kawagama  to  defile  the  air.  Subsequently 
this  same  "  sportsman  "  buried  another  big  catch  on 
the  beach  of  Superior.  These  and  other  exploits 
finally  earned  him  his  exclusion  from  the  delectable 
land.    I  give  his  name  because  I  have  personally 

171 


THE  FOREST 

talked  with  his  guides,  and  heard  their  circumstantial 
accounts  of  his  performances.  Unless  three  or  four 
woodsmen  are  fearful  liars,  I  do  Mr.  Clement  no  in- 
justice. Since  then  Tawabinisay  had  hidden  himself 
behind  his  impenetrable  grin. 

So  you  can  easily  see  that  the  discovery  of  Ka- 
wagama  would  be  a  feat  worthy  even  high  hills. 

That  afternoon  we  rested  and  made  our  cache,  A 
cache  in  the  forest  country  is  simply  a  heavily  con- 
structed rustic  platform  on  which  provisions  and 
clothing  are  laid  and  wrapped  completely  about  in 
sheets  of  canoe  bark  tied  firmly  with  strips  of  cedar 
bark,  or  withes  made  from  a  bush  whose  appearance 
I  know  well,  but  whose  name  I  cannot  say.  In  this 
receptacle  we  left  all  our  canned  goods,  our  extra 
clothing,  and  our  Dutch  oven.  We  retained  for  trans- 
portation some  pork,  flour,  rice,  baking-powder,  oat- 
meal, sugar,  and  tea;  cooking-utensils,  blankets,  the 
tent,  fishing-tackle,  and  the  little  pistol.  As  we  were 
about  to  go  into  the  high  country  where  presumably 
both  game  and  fish  might  lack,  we  were  forced  to 
take  a  full  supply  for  four  —  counting  Deuce  as  one 
—  to  last  ten  days.  The  packs  counted  up  about  one 
hundred  and  fifteen  pounds  of  grub,  twenty  pounds 
of  blankets,  ten  of  tent,  say  eight  or  ten  of  hardware 
including  the  axe,  about  twenty  of  duffel.  This  was 
further  increased  by  the  idiosyncrasy  of  Billy.  He,  like 
most  woodsmen,  was  wed  Jed  to  a  single  utterly  foolish 
article  of  personal  belonging,  which  he  worshiped  as 

172 


THE  HILLS 

a  fetish,  and  without  which  he  was  unhappy.  In  his 
case  it  was  a  huge  winter  overcoat  that  must  have 
weighed  fifteen  pounds.  The  total  amounted  to  about 
one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds.  We  gave  Dick 
twenty,  I  took  seventy-six,  and  Billy  shouldered  the 
rest. 

The  carrying  we  did  with  the  universal  tump-line. 
This  is  usually  described  as  a  strap  passed  about  a 
pack  and  across  the  forehead  of  the  bearer.  The  de- 
scription is  incorrect.  It  passes  across  the  top  of  the 
head.  The  weight  should  rest  on  the  small  of  the 
back  just  above  the  hips,  not  on  the  broad  of  the  back 
as  most  beginners  place  it.  Then  the  chin  should  be 
dropped,  the  body  slanted  sharply  forward  —  and  you 
may  be  able  to  stagger  forty  rods  at  your  first  at- 
tempt. 

Use  soon  accustoms  you  to  carrying,  however. 
The  first  time  I  ever  did  any  packing  I  had  a  hard 
time  stumbling  a  few  hundred  feet  over  a  hill  port- 
age with  just  fifty  pounds  on  my  back.  By  the  end 
of  that  same  trip  I  could  carry  a  hundred  pounds  and 
a  lot  of  miscellaneous  traps,  like  canoe-poles  and 
guns,  without  serious  inconvenience  and  over  a  long 
portage.  This  quickly  gained  power  comes  partly 
from  a  strengthening  of  the  muscles  of  the  neck,  but 
more  from  a  mastery  of  balance.  A  pack  can  twist 
you  as  suddenly  and  expertly  on  your  back  as  the 
best  of  wrestlers.  It  has  a  head  lock  on  you,  and  you 
have  to  go  or  break  your   neck.    After  a  time  you 

173 


THE  FOREST 

adjust  your  movements,  just  as  after  a  time  you  can 
travel  on  snow-shoes  through  heavy  down  timber 
without  taking  conscious  thought  as  to  the  placing 
of  your  feet. 

But  at  first  packing  is  as  near  infernal  punishment 
as  merely  mundane  conditions  can  compass.  Sixteen 
brand-new  muscles  ache,  at  first  dully,  then  sharply, 
then  intolerably,  until  it  seems  you  cannot  bear  it 
another  second.  You  are  unable  to  keep  your  feet. 
A  stagger  means  an  effort  at  recovery,  and  an  effort 
at  recovery  means  that  you  trip  when  you  place  your 
feet,  and  that  means,  if  you  are  lucky  enough  not  to 
be  thrown,  an  extra  tweak  for  every  one  of  the  six- 
teen new  muscles.  At  first  you  rest  every  time  you 
feel  tired.  Then  you  begin  to  feel  very  tired  every 
fifty  feet.  Then  you  have  to  do  the  best  you  can, 
and  prove  the  pluck  that  is  in  you. 

Mr.  Tom  Friant,  an  old  woodsman  of  wide  ex- 
perience, has  often  told  me  with  relish  of  his  first  try 
at  carrying.  He  had  about  sixty  pounds,  and  his 
companion  double  that  amount.  Mr.  Friant  stood 
it  a  few  centuries  and  then  sat  down.  He  could  n't 
have  moved  another  step  if  a  gun  had  been  at  his 
ear. 

"  What 's  the  matter  *?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"Del,"  said  Friant,  "I'm  all  in.  I  can't  navigate. 
Here  's  where  I  quit." 

"  Can't  you  carry  her  any  farther  ?  " 

"  Not  an  inch." 

174 


THE  HILLS 

"  Well,  pile  her  on.    I  '11  carry  her  for  you." 

Friant  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  silent  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to  carry 
your  pack  and  mine  too  ?  " 

"  That 's  what  I  mean  to  say.  I  '11  do  it  if  I  have 
to." 

Friant  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "  if  a  little  sawed-ofF  cuss 
like  you  can  wiggle  under  a  hundred  and  eighty,  I 
guess  I  can  make  it  under  sixty." 

"  That 's  right,"  said  Del,  imperturbably.  "  If  you 
think  you  can^you  can'"' 

"  And  I  did,"  ends  Friant  with  a  chuckle. 

Therein  lies  the  whole  secret.  The  work  is  irk- 
some, sometimes  even  painful,  but  if  you  think  you 
can  do  it,  you  can,  for  though  great  is  the  protest  of 
the  human  frame  against  what  it  considers  abuse, 
greater  is  the  power  of  a  man's  grit. 

We  carried  the  canoe  above  the  larger  eddies,  where 
we  embarked  ourselves  and  our  packs  for  traverse, 
leaving  Deuce  under  strict  command  to  await  a  sec- 
ond trip.  Deuce  disregarded  the  strict  command. 
From  disobedience  came  great  peril,  for  when  he  at- 
tempted to  swim  across  after  us  he  was  carried  down- 
stream, involved  in  a  whirlpool,  sucked  under,  and 
nearly  drowned.  We  could  do  nothing  but  watch. 
When  finally  the  River  spewed  out  a  frightened  and 
bedraggled  dog,  we  drew  a  breath  of  very  genuine 

175 


THE  FOREST 

relief,  for  Deuce  was  dear  to  us  through  much  asso- 
ciation. 

The  canoe  we  turned  bottom  up  and  left  in  the 
bushes,  and  so  we  set  off  through  the  forest. 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  we  began  to  mount 
a  gentle  ascent.  The  gentle  ascent  speedily  became 
a  sharp  slope,  the  sharp  slope  an  abrupt  hill,  and  the 
latter  finally  an  almost  sheer  face  of  rock  and  thin 
soil.  We  laid  hold  doggedly  of  little  cedars ;  we  dug 
our  fingers  into  little  crevices,  and  felt  for  the  same 
with  our  toes ;  we  perspired  in  streams  and  breathed 
in  gasps ;  we  held  the  strained  muscles  of  our  necks 
rigid,  for  the  twisting  of  a  pack  meant  here  a  danger- 
ous fall;  we  flattened  ourselves  against  the  face  of 
the  mountain  with  always  the  heavy,  ceaseless  pull  of 
the  tump-line  attempting  to  tear  us  backward  from 
our  holds.  And  so  at  last,  when  the  muscles  of  our 
thighs  refused  to  strengthen  our  legs  for  the  ascent 
of  another  foot,  we  would  turn  our  backs  to  the  slant 
and  sink  gratefully  into  the  only  real  luxury  in  the 
world. 

For  be  it  known  that  real  luxury  cannot  be  bought; 
it  must  be  worked  for.  I  refer  to  luxury  as  the  exqui^ 
site  savor  of  a  pleasant  sensation.  The  keenest  sense- 
impressions  are  undoubtedly  those  of  contrast.  In 
looking  back  over  a  variety  of  experience,  I  have  no 
hesitation  at  all  in  selecting  as  the  moment  in  which 
I  have  experienced  the  liveliest  physical  pleasure  one 
hot  afternoon  in  July.  The  thermometer  might  have 

176 


THE  HILLS 

stood  anywhere.  We  would  have  placed  childlike 
trust  in  any  of  its  statements,  even  three  figures  great. 
Our  way  had  led  through  unbroken  forest  oppressed 
by  low  brush  and  an  underfooting  of  brakes.  There 
had  been  hills.  Our  clothes  were  wringing  wet,  to 
the  last  stitch ;  even  the  leather  of  the  tump-line  was 
saturated.  The  hot  air  we  gulped  down  did  not  seem 
to  satisfy  our  craving  for  oxygen  any  more  than 
lukewarm  water  ever  seems  to  cut  a  real  thirst.  The 
woods  were  literally  like  an  oven  in  their  hot  dryness. 
Finally  we  skirted  a  little  hill,  and  at  the  base  of  that 
hill  a  great  tree  had  fallen,  and  through  the  aperture 
thus  made  in  the  forest  a  tiny  current  of  cool  air 
flowed  like  a  stream.  It  was  not  a  great  current,  nor 
a  wide ;  if  we  moved  three  feet  in  any  direction,  we 
were  out  of  it.  But  we  sat  us  down  directly  across 
its  flow.  And  never  have  dinners  or  wines  or  men  or 
women,  or  talks  of  books  or  scenery  or  adventure  or 
sport,  or  the  softest,  daintiest  refinements  of  man's  in- 
vention given  me  the  half  of  luxury  I  drank  in  from 
that  little  breeze.  So  the  commonest  things  —  a  dash 
of  cool  water  on  the  wrists,  a  gulp  of  hot  tea,  a  warm 
dry  blanket,  a  whifF  of  tobacco,  a  ray  of  sunshine  — 
are  more  really  the  luxuries  than  all  the  comforts  and 
sybaritisms  we  buy.  Undoubtedly  the  latter  would 
also  rise  to  the  higher  category  if  we  were  to  work 
for  their  essence  instead  of  merely  signing  club  checks 
or  paying  party  calls  for  them. 

Which  means  that  when  we  three  would  rest  our 
177 


THE  FOREST 

packs  against  the  side  of  that  hill,  and  drop  our  head- 
straps  below  our  chins,  we  were  not  at  all  to  be  pitied, 
even  though  the  forest  growth  denied  us  the  encour- 
agement of  knowing  how  much  farther  we  had  to  go. 

Before  us  the  trees  dropped  away  rapidly,  so  that 
twenty  feet  out  in  a  straight  line  we  were  looking 
directly  into  their  tops.  There,  quite  on  an  equality 
with  their  own  airy  estate,  we  could  watch  the  fly- 
catchers and  warblers  conducting  their  small  affairs  of 
the  chase.  It  lent  us  the  illusion  of  imponderability ; 
we  felt  that  we  too  might  be  able  to  rest  securely  on 
graceful  gossamer  twigs.  And  sometimes,  through  a 
chance  opening,  we  could  see  down  over  billows  of 
waving  leaves  to  a  single  little  spot  of  blue,  like  a 
turquoise  sunk  in  folds  of  green  velvet,  which  meant 
that  the  River  was  dropping  below  us.  This,  in  the 
mercy  of  the  Red  Gods,  was  meant  as  encouragement. 

The  time  came,  however,  when  the  ramparts  we 
scaled  rose  sheer  and  bare  in  impregnability.  Nothing 
could  be  done  on  the  straight  line,  so  we  turned  sharp 
to  the  north.  The  way  was  difficult,  for  it  lay  over 
great  fragments  of  rock  stricken  from  the  cliff  by 
winter,  and  further  rendered  treacherous  by  the  moss 
and  wet  by  a  thousand  trickles  of  water.  At  the  end 
of  one  hour  we  found  what  might  be  called  a  ravine 
if  you  happened  not  to  be  particular,  or  a  steep  cleft 
in  the  precipice  if  you  were.  Here  we  deserted  the 
open  air  for  piled-up  brushy  tangles,  many  sharp-cor- 
nered rock  fragments,  and  a  choked  streamlet.  Finally 

178 


THE  HILLS 

the  whole  outfit  abruptly  ceased.  We  climbed  ten 
feet  of  crevices  and  stood  on  the  ridge. 

The  forest  trees  shut  us  in  our  own  little  area,  so 
that  we  were  for  the  moment  unable  to  look  abroad 
over  the  country. 

The  descent,  abrupt  where  we  had  mounted, 
stretched  away  gently  toward  the  north  and  west. 
And  on  that  slope,  protected  as  it  was  from  the  se- 
verer storms  that  sweep  up  the  open  valleys  in  winter, 
stood  the  most  magnificent  primeval  forest  it  has  ever 
been  my  fortune  to  behold.  The  huge  maple,  beech, 
and  birch  trees  lifted  column-like  straight  up  to  a 
lucent  green  canopy,  always  twinkling  and  shifting  in 
the  wind  and  the  sunlight.  Below  grew  a  thin  screen 
of  underbrush,  through  which  we  had  no  difficulty  at 
all  in  pushing,  but  which  threw  about  us  face-high  a 
tender  green  partition.  The  eflfect  was  that  of  a  pew 
in  an  old-fashioned  church,  so  that,  though  we  shared 
the  upper  stillnesses,  a  certain  delightful  privacy  of 
our  own  seemed  assured  us.  This  privacy  we  knew 
to  be  assured  also  to  many  creatures  besides  ourselves. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  screen  of  broad  leaves  we 
sensed  the  presence  of  life.  It  did  not  intrude  on  us, 
nor  were  we  permitted  to  intrude  on  it.  But  it  was 
there.  We  heard  it  rustling,  pattering,  scrambling, 
whispering,  scurrying  with  a  rush  of  wings.  More 
subtly  we  felt  it,  as  one  knows  of  a  presence  in  a  dark- 
ened room.  By  the  exercise  of  imagination  and  ex- 
perience we  identified  it  in  its  manifestations  —  the 

179 


THE  FOREST 

squirrel,  the  partridge,  the  weasel,  the  spruce  hens, 
once  or  twice  the  deer.  We  knew  it  saw  us  perfectly, 
although  we  could  not  see  it,  and  that  gave  us  an  im- 
pression of  companionship,  so  the  forest  was  not  lonely. 

Next  to  this  double  sense  of  isolation  and  company 
was  the  feeling  of  transparent  shadow.  The  forest  was 
thick  and  cool.  Only  rarely  did  the  sun  find  an  ori- 
fice in  the  roof  through  which  to  pour  a  splash  of 
liquid  gold.  All  the  rest  was  in  shadow.  But  the 
shadow  was  that  of  the  bottom  of  the  sea — cool, 
green,  and  above  all  transparent.  We  saw  into  the 
depth  of  it,  but  dimly,  as  we  would  see  into  the  green 
recesses  of  a  tropic  ocean.  It  possessed  the  same  li- 
quid quality.  Finally  the  illusion  overcame  us  com- 
pletely. We  bathed  in  the  shadows  as  though  they 
were  palpable,  and  from  that  came  great  refreshment. 

Under  foot  the  soil  was  springy  with  the  mold  of 
numberless  autumns.  The  axe  had  never  hurried  slow 
old  servant  decay.  Once  in  a  while  we  came  across  a 
prostrate  trunk  lying  in  the  trough  of  destruction  its 
fall  had  occasioned.  But  the  rest  of  the  time  we  trod 
a  carpet  to  the  making  of  which  centuries  of  dead 
forest  warriors  had  wrapped  themselves  in  mold  and 
soft  moss  and  gentle  dissolution.  Sometimes  a  faint 
rounded  shell  of  former  fair  proportion  swelled  above 
the  level,  to  crumble  to  punkwood  at  the  lightest 
touch  of  our  feet.  Or,  again,  the  simulacrum  of  a  tree- 
trunk  would  bravely  oppose  our  path,  only  to  melt 
away  into  nothing,  like  the  opposing  phantoms  of 

i8o 


THE  HILLS 

JEneas,  when  we  placed  a  knee  against  it  for  the  sur- 
mounting. 

If  the  pine  woods  be  characterized  by  cathedral 
solemnity,  and  the  cedars  and  tamaracks  by  certain 
horrifical  gloom,  and  the  popples  by  a  silvery  sun- 
shine, and  the  berry-clearings  by  grateful  heat  and 
the  homely  manner  of  familiar  birds,  then  the  great 
hardwood  must  be  known  as  the  dwelling-place  of 
transparent  shadows,  of  cool  green  lucence,  and  the 
repository  of  immemorial  cheerful  forest  tradition 
which  the  traveler  can  hear  of,  but  which  he  is  never 
permitted  actually  to  know. 

In  this  lovable  mystery  we  journeyed  all  the  rest 
of  that  morning.  The  packs  were  heavy  with  the  first 
day's  weight,  and  we  were  tired  from  our  climb ;  but 
the  deep  physical  joy  of  going  on  and  ever  on  into 
unknown  valleys,  down  a  long,  gentle  slope  that  must 
lead  somewhere,  through  things  animate  and  things 
of  an  almost  animate  life,  opening  silently  before  us 
to  give  us  passage,  and  closing  as  silently  behind  us 
after  we  had  passed  —  these  made  us  forget  our  aches 
and  fatigues  for  the  moment. 

At  noon  we  boiled  tea  near  a  little  spring  of  clear, 
cold  water.  As  yet  we  had  no  opportunity  of  seeing 
farther  than  the  closing  in  of  many  trees.  We  were, 
as  far  as  external  appearances  went,  no  more  advanced 
than  our  first  resting-place  after  surmounting  the  ridge. 
This  effect  is  constant  in  the  great  forests.  You  are 
in  a  treadmill  —  though  a  pleasant  one  withal.  Your 


THE  FOREST 

camp  of  to-day  differs  only  in  non-essentials  from  that 
of  yesterday,  and  your  camp  of  to-morrow  will  prob- 
ably be  almost  exactly  like  to-day's.  Only  when  you 
reach  your  objective  point  do  you  come  to  a  full 
realization  that  you  have  not  been  the  Sisyphus  of 
the  Red  Gods. 

Deuce  returning  from  exploration  brought  indubi- 
table evidence  of  porcupines.  We  picked  the  barbed 
little  weapons  from  his  face  and  nose  and  tongue  with 
much  difficulty  for  ourselves  and  much  pain  for  Deuce. 
We  offered  consolation  by  voicing  for  his  dumbness 
his  undoubted  intention  to  avoid  all  future  porcu- 
pines.   Then  we  took  up  the  afternoon  tramp. 

Now  at  last  through  the  trees  appeared  the  gleam 
of  water.  Tawabinisay  had  said  that  Kawagama  was 
the  only  lake  in  its  district.  We  therefore  became 
quite  excited  at  this  sapphire  promise.  Our  packs 
were  thrown  aside,  and  like  school-boys  we  raced 
down  the  declivity  to  the  shore. 


l82 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 


XIV 
ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

WE  found  ourselves  peering  through  the  thicket 
at  a  little  reed  and  grass-grown  body  of  water 
a  few  acres  in  extent.  A  short  detour  to  the  right 
led  us  to  an  outlet  —  a  brook  of  a  width  and  dash 
that  convinced  us  the  little  pond  was  only  a  stopping- 
place  in  the  stream,  and  not  a  head  water  as  we  had 
at  first  imagined.  Then  a  nearer  approach  led  us  past 
pointed  tree -stumps  exquisitely  chiseled  with  the 
marks  of  teeth,  so  we  knew  we  looked,  not  on  a  nat- 
ural pond,  but  on  the  work  of  beavers. 

I  examined  the  dam  more  closely.  It  was  a  mar- 
vel of  engineering  skill  in  the  accuracy  with  which  the 
big  trees  had  been  felled  exactly  along  the  most  ef- 
fective lines,  the  efficiency  of  the  filling  in,  and  the 
just  estimate  of  the  waste  water  to  be  allowed.  We 
named  the  place  obviously  Beaver  Pond,  resumed 
our  packs,  and  pushed  on. 

Now  I  must  be  permitted  to  celebrate  by  a  little 
the  pluck  of  Dick.  He  was  quite  unused  to  the  tump- 
line  ;  comparatively  inexperienced  in  woods-walking; 
and  weighed  but  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  pounds. 

185 


THE  FOREST 

Yet  not  once  in  the  course  of  that  trip  did  he  bewail 
his  fate.  Towards  the  close  of  this  first  afternoon  I 
dropped  behind  to  see  how  he  was  making  it.  The 
boy  had  his  head  down,  his  Hps  shut  tight  together, 
his  legs  well  straddled  apart.  As  I  watched  he  stum- 
bled badly  over  the  merest  twig. 

"  Dick,"  said  I,  "  are  you  tired  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  confessed,  frankly. 

"  Can  you  make  it  another  half  hour  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so ;  1 11  try." 

At  the  end  of  the  half  hour  we  dropped  our  packs. 
Dick  had  manifested  no  impatience  —  not  once  had 
he  even  asked  how  nearly  time  was  up  —  but  now 
he  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  stop,"  said  he, 
simply. 

From  Dick  those  words  meant  a  great  deal.  For 
woods-walking  differs  as  widely  from  ordinary  walk- 
ing as  trap-shooting  from  field-shooting.  A  good  pe- 
destrian may  tire  very  quickly  in  the  forest.  No  two 
successive  steps  are  of  the  same  length  ;  no  two  succes- 
sive steps  fall  on  the  same  quality  of  footing;  no  two 
successive  steps  are  on  the  same  level.  Those  three  are 
the  major  elements  of  fatigue.  Add  further  the  facts 
that  your  way  is  continually  obstructed  both  by  real 
difficulties  —  such  as  trees,  trunks,  and  rocks  —  and 
lesser  annoyances,  such  as  branches,  bushes,  and  even 
spider-webs.  These  things  all  combine  against  endur- 
ance.   The  inexperienced  does  not  know  how  to  meet 

1 86 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

them  with  a  minimum  of  effort.  The  tenderfoot  is 
in  a  constant  state  of  muscular  and  mental  rigidity 
against  a  fall  or  a  stumble  or  a  cut  across  the  face  from 
some  one  of  the  infinitely  numerous  woods  scourges. 
This  rigidity  speedily  exhausts  the  vital  force. 

So  much  for  the  philosophy  of  it.  Its  practical  side 
might  be  infinitely  extended.  Woodsmen  are  tough 
and  enduring  and  in  good  condition ;  but  no  more  so 
than  the  average  college  athlete.  Time  and  again  I 
have  seen  men  of  the  latter  class  walked  to  a  stand- 
still. I  mean  exactly  that.  They  knew  and  were  justly 
proud  of  their  physical  condition,  and  they  hated  to 
acknowledge,  even  to  themselves,  that  the  rest  of  us 
were  more  enduring.  As  a  consequence,  they  played 
on  their  nerve,  beyond  their  physical  powers.  When 
the  collapse  came,  it  was  complete.  I  remember  very 
well  a  crew  of  men  turning  out  from  a  lumber-camp 
on  the  Sturgeon  River  to  bring  in  on  a  litter  a  young 
fellow  who  had  given  out  while  attempting  to  follow 
Bethel  Bristol  through  a  hard  day.  Bristol  said  he 
dropped  finally  as  though  he  had  been  struck  on  the 
head.  The  woodsman  had  thereupon  built  him  a  lit- 
tle fire,  made  him  as  comfortable  as  possible  with 
both  coats,  and  hiked  for  assistance.  I  once  went 
into  the  woods  with  a  prominent  college  athlete.  We 
walked  rather  hard  over  a  rough  country  until  noon. 
Then,  the  athlete  lay  on  his  back  for  the  rest  of 
the  day,  while  I  finished  alone  the  business  we  had 
come  on. 

187 


THE  FOREST 

Now,  these  instances  do  not  imply  that  Bristol,  and 
certainly  not  myself,  were  any  stronger  physically,  or 
possessed  more  nervous  force,  than  the  men  we  had 
tired  out.  Either  of  them  on  a  road  could  have  trailed 
us,  step  for  step,  and  as  long  as  we  pleased.  But  we 
knew  the  game. 

It  comes  at  the  last  to  be  entirely  a  matter  of  ex- 
perience. Any  man  can  walk  in  the  woods  all  day  at 
some  gait.  But  his  speed  will  depend  on  his  skill.  It 
is  exactly  like  making  your  way  through  heavy,  dry 
sand.  As  long  as  you  restrain  yourself  to  a  certain 
leisurely  plodding,  you  get  along  without  extraordi- 
nary effort,  while  even  a  slight  increase  of  speed  drags 
fiercely  at  your  feet.  So  it  is  with  the  woods.  As 
long  as  you  walk  slowly  enough  so  that  you  can  pick 
your  footing,  and  lift  aside  easily  the  branches  that 
menace  your  face,  you  will  expend  little  nervous 
energy.  But  the  slightest  pressing,  the  slightest  incli- 
nation to  go  beyond  what  may  be  called  your  physi- 
cal foresight,  lands  you  immediately  in  difficulties. 
You  stumble,  you  break  through  the  brush,  you  shut 
your  eyes  to  avoid  sharp  switchings.  The  reservoir 
of  your  energy  is  open  full  cock.  In  about  an  hour 
you  feel  very,  very  tired. 

This  principle  holds  rigidly  true  of  every  one,  from 
the  softest  tenderfoot  to  the  expertest  forest-runner. 
For  each  there  exists  a  normal  rate  of  travel,  beyond 
which  are  penalties.  Only,  the  forest-runner,  by  long 
use,  has  raised  the  exponent  of  his  powers.   Perhaps 

i88 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

as  a  working  hypothesis  the  following  might  be 
recommended :  One  good  step  is  worth  six  stumbling 
steps ;  go  only  fast  enough  to  assure  that  good  one. 

You  will  learn  besides  a  number  of  things  practi- 
cally which  memory  cannot  summon  to  order  for 
instance  here.  "Brush  slanted  across  your  path  is 
easier  lifted  over  your  head  and  dropped  behind  you 
than  pushed  aside,"  will  do  as  an  example. 

A  good  woods-walker  progresses  without  apparent 
hurry.  I  have  followed  the  disappearing  back  of 
Tawabinisay  when,  as  my  companion  elegantly  ex- 
pressed it,  "  if  you  stopped  to  spit  you  got  lost." 
Tawabinisay  wandered  through  the  forest,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  humming  a  little  Indian  hymn.  And 
we  were  breaking  madly  along  behind  him  with  the 
crashing  of  many  timbers. 

Of  your  discoveries  probably  one  of  the  most  im- 
pressive will  be  that  in  the  bright  lexicon  of  woods- 
craft  the  word  "  mile  "  has  been  entirely  left  out.  To 
count  by  miles  is  a  useless  and  ornamental  elegance 
of  civilization.  Some  of  us  once  worked  hard  all  one 
day  only  to  camp  three  miles  downstream  from  our 
resting-place  of  the  night  before.  And  the  following 
day  we  ran  nearly  sixty  with  the  current.  The 
space  of  measured  country  known  as  a  mile  may 
hold  you  five  minutes  or  five  hours  from  your  des- 
tination. The  Indian  counts  by  time ;  and  after  a 
little  you  will  follow  his  example.  "Four  miles  to 
Kettle  Portage "  means  nothing.    "  Two  hours  to 

189 


THE  FOREST 

Kettle  Portage"  does.  Only,  when  an  Indian  tells 
you  two  hours  you  would  do  well  to  count  it  as 
four. 

Well,  our  trip  practically  amounted  to  seven  days 
to  nowhere;  or  perhaps  seven  days  to  everywhere 
would  be  more  accurate.  It  was  all  in  the  high  hills 
until  the  last  day  and  a  half,  and  generally  in  the 
hardwood  forests.  Twice  we  intersected  and  followed 
for  short  distances  Indian  trails,  neither  of  which  ap- 
parently had  been  traveled  since  the  original  party 
that  had  made  them.  They  led  across  country  for 
greater  or  lesser  distances  in  the  direction  we  wished 
to  travel,  and  then  turned  aside.  Three  times  we 
blundered  on  little  meadows  of  moose-grass.  Invari- 
ably these  were  tramped  muddy  like  a  cattle- yard, 
where  the  great  animals  had  stood  as  lately  as  the 
night  before.  Caribou  were  not  uncommon.  There 
were  a  few  deer,  but  not  many,  for  the  most  of  the 
deer  country  lies  to  the  south  of  this  our  district. 
Partridges,  as  we  had  anticipated,  lacked  in  such  high 
country. 

In  the  course  of  the  five  days  and  a  half  we  were 
in  the  hills  we  discovered  six  lakes  of  various  sizes. 
The  smallest  was  a  mere  pond.  The  largest  would 
measure  some  three  or  four  miles  in  diameter.  We 
came  upon  that  very  late  one  afternoon.  A  brook  of 
some  size  crossed  our  way,  so,  as  was  our  habit,  we 
promptly  turned  upstream  to  discover  its  source. 
In  the  high  country  the  head  waters  are  never  more 

190 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

than  a  few  miles  distant ;  and  at  the  same  time  the 
magnitude  of  this  indicated  a  lake  rather  than  a  spring 
as  the  supply.    The  lake  might  be  Kawagama. 

Our  packs  had  grown  to  be  very  heavy,  for  they 
had  already  the  weight  of  nine  hours  piled  on  top. 
And  the  stream  was  exceedingly  difficult  to  follow. 
It  flowed  in  one  of  those  aggravating  little  ravines 
whose  banks  are  too  high  and  steep  and  uneven  for 
good  footing,  and  whose  beds  are  choked  with  a  too 
abundant  growth.  In  addition,  there  had  fallen  many 
trees  over  which  one  had  to  climb.  We  kept  at  it  for 
perhaps  an  hour.  The  brook  continued  of  the  same 
size,  and  the  country  of  the  same  character.  Dick  for 
the  first  time  suggested  that  it  might  be  well  to  camp. 

"  We  've  got  good  water  here,"  he  argued,  quite 
justly,  "  and  we  can  push  on  to-morrow  just  as  well  as 
to-night." 

We  balanced  our  packs  against  a  prostrate  tree- 
trunk.  Billy  contributed  his  indirect  share  to  the 
argument. 

"  I  lak'  to  have  the  job  mak'  heem  this  countree  all 
over,"  he  sighed.    "  I  mak'  heem  more  level." 

"All  right,"  I  agreed ;  "  you  fellows  sit  here  and  rest 
a  minute,  and  I  '11  take  a  whirl  a  little  ways  ahead." 

I  slipped  my  tump-line,  and  started  on  light.  After 
carrying  a  heavy  pack  so  long,  I  seemed  to  tread  on 
air.  The  thicket,  before  so  formidable,  amounted  to 
nothing  at  all.  Perhaps  the  consciousness  that  the 
day's  work  was  in  reality  over  lent  a  little  factitious 

191 


THE  FOREST 

energy  to  my  tired  legs.  At  any  rate,  the  projected 
two  hundred  feet  of  my  investigations  stretched  to  a 
good  quarter-mile.  At  the  end  of  that  space  I  de- 
bouched on  a  widening  of  the  ravine.  The  hardwood 
ran  off  into  cedars.  I  pushed  through  the  stiff  rods 
and  yielding  fans  of  the  latter,  and  all  at  once  found 
myself  leaning  out  over  the  waters  of  the  lake. 

It  was  almost  an  exact  oval,  and  lay  in  a  cup  of 
hills.  Three  wooded  islands,  swimming  like  ducks  in 
the  placid  evening  waters,  added  a  touch  of  diversity. 
A  huge  white  rock  balanced  the  composition  to  the 
left,  and  a  single  white  sea-gull,  like  a  snowflake 
against  pines,  brooded  on  its  top. 

I  looked  abroad  to  where  the  perfect  reflection  of 
the  hills  confused  the  shore  line.  I  looked  down 
through  five  feet  of  crystal  water  to  where  pebbles 
shimmered  in  refraction.  I  noted  the  low  rocks  jut- 
ting from  the  wood's  shelter  whereon  one  might  stand 
to  cast  a  fly.  Then  I  turned  and  yelled  and  yelled 
and  yelled  again  at  the  forest. 

Billy  came  through  the  brush,  crashing  in  his 
haste.  He  looked  long  and  comprehendingly.  With- 
out further  speech,  we  turned  back  to  where  Dick 
was  guarding  the  packs. 

That  youth  we  found  profoundly  indifferent. 

"  Kawagama,"  we  cried,  "a  quarter-mile  ahead." 

He  turned  on  us  a  lackluster  eye. 

"  You  going  to  camp  here  ^  "  he  inquired,  dully. 

"  Course  not !  We  '11  go  on  and  camp  at  the  lake." 
192 


**  In  this  lovable  mystery  we  journeyed  all  tlic  irsi  ul  liiai  iju-iiung 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

"All  right,"  he  replied. 

We  resumed  our  packs,  a  little  stiffly  and  reluc- 
tantly, for  we  had  tasted  of  woods-travel  without 
them.   At  the  lake  we  rested. 

"Going  to  camp  here^  "  inquired  Dick. 

We  looked  about,  but  noted  that  the  ground  under 
the  cedars  was  hummocky,  and  that  the  hardwood 
grew  on  a  slope.  Besides,  we  wanted  to  camp  as  near 
the  shore  as  possible.  Probably  a  trifle  farther  along 
there  would  be  a  point  of  high  land  and  delightful 
little  paper-birches. 

"  No,"  we  answered,  cheerfully,  "  this  is  n*t  much 
good.  Suppose  we  push  along  a  ways  and  find  some- 
thing better." 

"  All  right,"  Dick  replied. 

We  walked  perhaps  a  half-mile  more  to  the  west- 
ward before  we  discovered  what  we  wanted,  stopping 
from  time  to  time  to  discuss  the  merits  of  this  or  that 
place.  Billy  and  I  were  feeling  pretty  good.  After 
such  a  week,  Kawagama  was  a  tonic.  Finally  we 
agreed. 

"  This  11  do,"  said  we. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Dick,  unexpectedly;  and 
dropped  his  pack  to  the  ground  with  a  thud,  and  sat 
on  it. 

I  looked  at  him  closely.  Then  I  undid  my  own 
pack. 

"  Billy,"  said  I,  "  start  in  on  grub.  Never  mind  the 
tent  just  now." 

193 


THE  FOREST 

"  A'  right,"  grinned  Billy.  He  had  been  making 
his  own  observations. 

"  Dick,"  said  I,  "  let 's  go  down  and  sit  on  the  rock 
over  the  water.    We  might  fish  a  little." 

"  All  right,"  Dick  replied. 

He  stumbled  dully  after  me  to  the  shore. 

"  Dick,"  I  continued,  "  you  're  a  kid,  and  you  have 
high  principles,  and  your  mother  would  n't  like  it, 
but  I  'm  going  to  prescribe  for  you,  and  I  'm  going 
to  insist  on  your  following  the  prescription.  This 
flask  does  not  contain  fly-dope ;  that 's  in  the  other 
flask.  It  contains  whiskey.  I  have  had  it  in  my  pack 
since  we  started,  and  it  has  not  been  opened.  I  don't 
believe  in  whiskey  in  the  woods ;  not  because  I  am 
temperance,  but  because  a  man  can't  travel  on  it. 
But  here  is  where  you  break  your  heaven-born  prin- 
ciples.  Drink." 

Dick  hesitated,  then  he  drank.  By  the  time  grub 
was  ready  his  vitality  had  come  to  normal,  and  so 
he  was  able  to  digest  his  food  and  get  some  good  out 
of  it.  Otherwise  he  could  not  have  done  so.  Thus 
he  furnished  an  admirable  example  of  the  only  real 
use  for  whiskey  in  woods-travel.  Also  it  was  the 
nearest  Dick  ever  came  to  being  completely  played 
out. 

That  evening  was  delightful.  We  sat  on  the  rock 
and  watched  the  long  North  Country  twilight  steal  up 
like  a  gray  cloud  from  the  east.  Two  loons  called  to 
each  other,  now  in  the  shrill  maniac  laughter,  now 

194 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

mth  the  long,  mournful  cry.  It  needed  just  that  one 
touch  to  finish  the  picture.  We  were  looking,  had 
we  but  known  it,  on  a  lake  no  white  man  had  ever 
visited  before.  Clement  alone  had  seen  Kawagama, 
so  in  our  ignorance  we  attained  much  the  same  men- 
tal attitude.  For  I  may  as  well  let  you  into  the  secret ; 
this  was  not  the  fabled  lake  after  all.  We  found  that 
out  later  from  Tawabinisay.  But  it  was  beautiful 
enough,  and  wild  enough,  and  strange  enough  in  its 
splendid  wilderness  isolation  to  fill  the  heart  of  the 
explorer  with  a  great  content. 

Having  thus,  as  we  thought,  attained  the  primary 
object  of  our  explorations,  we  determined  on  trying 
now  for  the  second  —  that  is,  the  investigation  of 
the  upper  reaches  of  the  River.  Trout  we  had  not 
accomplished  at  this  lake,  but  the  existence  offish  of 
some  sort  was  attested  by  the  presence  of  the  two 
loons  and  the  gull,  so  we  laid  our  nan-success  to  fish- 
erman's luck.  After  two  false  starts  we  managed  to 
strike  into  a  good  country  near  enough  our  direction. 
The  travel  was  much  the  same  as  before.  The  second 
day,  however,  we  came  to  a  surveyor's  base-line  cut 
through  the  woods.  Then  we  followed  that  as  a  mat- 
ter of  convenience.  The  base-line,  cut  the  fall  before, 
was  the  only  evidence  of  man  we  sav/  in  the  high 
country.  It  meant  nothing  in  itself,  but  was  intended 
as  a  starting-point  for  the  township  surveys,  when- 
ever the  country  should  become  civilized  enough  to 
warrant  them.    That  condition  of  affairs  might  not 

195      - 


THE  FOREST 

occur  for  years  to  come.  Therefore  the  line  was  cut 
out  clear  for  a  width  of  twenty  feet. 

We  continued  along  it  as  along  a  trail  until  we  dis- 
covered our  last  lake  —  a  body  of  water  possessing 
many  radiating  arms.  This  was  the  nearest  we  came 
to  the  real  Kawagama.  If  we  had  skirted  the  lake, 
mounted  the  ridge,  followed  a  creek-bed,  mounted 
another  ridge,  and  descended  a  slope,  we  should  have 
made  our  discovery.  Later  we  did  just  that,  under 
the  guidance  of  Tawabinisay  himself  Floating  in 
the  birch  canoe  we  carried  with  us  we  looked  back 
at  the  very  spot  on  which  we  stood  this  morning. 

But  we  turned  sharp  to  the  left,  and  so  missed  our 
chance.  However,  we  were  in  a  happy  frame  of 
mind,  for  we  imagined  we  had  really  made  the  de- 
sired discovery. 

Nothing  of  moment  happened  until  we  reached 
the  valley  of  the  River.  Then  we  found  we  were 
treed.  We  had  been  traveling  all  the  time  among  hills 
and  valleys,  to  be  sure,  but  on  a  high  elevation.  Even 
the  bottom-lands,  in  which  lay  the  lakes,  were  several 
hundred  feet  above  Superior.  Now  we  emerged  from 
the  forest  to  find  ourselves  on  bold  mountains  at  least 
seven  or  eight  hundred  feet  above  the  main  valley. 
And  in  the  main  valley  we  could  make  out  the 
River. 

It  was  rather  dizzy  work.  Three  or  four  times  we 
ventured  over  the  rounded  crest  of  the  hill,  only  to 
return  after  forty  or  fifty  feet  because  the  slope  had 

196 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

become  too  abrupt.  This  grew  to  be  monotonous 
and  aggravating.  It  looked  as  though  we  might  have 
to  parallel  the  River's  course,  like  scouts  watching  an 
army,  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  Finally  a  little  ravine 
gave  us  hope.  We  scrambled  down  it ;  ended  in  a 
very  steep  slant,  and  finished  at  a  sheer  tangle  of 
cedar-roots.  The  latter  we  attempted.  Billy  went  on 
ahead.  I  let  the  packs  down  to  him  by  means  of  a 
tump-line.  He  balanced  them  on  roots  until  I  had 
climbed  below  him.  And  so  on.  It  was  exactly  like 
letting  a  bucket  down  a  well.  If  one  of  the  packs 
had  slipped  off  the  cedar-roots,  it  would  have  dropped 
like  a  plummet  to  the  valley,  and  landed  on  Heaven 
knows  what.  The  same  might  be  said  of  ourselves. 
We  did  this  because  we  were  angry  all  through. 

Then  we  came  to  the  end  of  the  cedar-roots. 
Right  and  left  offered  nothing ;  below  was  a  sheer, 
bare  drop.  Absolutely  nothing  remained  but  to  climb 
back,  heavy  packs  and  all,  to  the  top  of  the  mountain. 
False  hopes  had  wasted  a  good  half  day  and  innu- 
merable foot-pounds.  Billy  and  I  saw  red.  We 
bowed  our  heads  and  snaked  those  packs  to  the  top 
of  the  mountain  at  a  gait  that  ordinarily  would  have 
tired  us  out  in  fifty  feet.  Dick  did  not  attempt  to 
keep  up.  When  we  reached  the  top  we  sat  down 
to  wait  for  him.  After  a  while  he  appeared,  climb- 
ing leisurely.  He  gazed  on  us  from  behind  the  mask 
of  his  Indian  imperturbability.  Then  he  grinned. 
That  did  us  good,  for  we  all  three  laughed  aloud, 

197 


THE  FOREST 

and  buckled  down  to  business  in  a  better  frame  of 
mind. 

That  day  we  discovered  a  most  beautiful  waterfall 
A  stream  about  twenty  feet  in  width,  and  with  a  good 
volume  of  water,  dropped  some  three  hundred  feet  or 
more  into  the  River.  It  was  across  the  valley  from 
us,  so  we  had  a  good  view  of  its  beauties.  Our  esti- 
mates of  its  height  were  carefully  made  on  the  basis 
of  some  standing  pine  that  grew  near  its  foot. 

And  then  we  entered  a  steep  little  ravine,  and  de- 
scended it  with  misgivings  to  a  canon,  and  walked 
easily  down  the  canon  to  a  slope  that  took  us  by 
barely  sensible  gradations  to  a  wooded  plain.  At  six 
o'clock  we  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  River,  and  the 
hills  were  behind  us. 

Of  our  downstream  travel  there  is  little  really  to  be 
said.  We  established  a  number  of  facts  —  that  the 
River  dashes  most  scenically  from  rapid  to  rapid,  so 
that  the  stagnant  pool  theory  is  henceforth  untenable ; 
that  the  hills  get  higher  and  wilder  the  farther  you 
penetrate  to  the  interior,  and  their  cliffs  and  rock- 
precipices  bolder  and  more  naked ;  that  there  are  trout 
in  the  upper  reaches,  but  not  so  large  as  in  the  lower 
pools;  and,  above  all,  that  travel  is  not  a  joy  forever. 

For  we  could  not  ford  the  River  above  the  Falls  — 
it  is  too  deep  and  swift.  As  a  consequence,  we  had 
often  to  climb,  often  to  break  through  the  narrowest 
thicket  strips,  and  once  to  feel  our  way  cautiously 
along  a  sunken  ledge  under  a  sheer  rock  cliff.   That 

19S 


ON  WALKING  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

was  Billy's  idea.  We  came  to  the  sheer  rock  cliff  after 
a  pretty  hard  scramble,  and  we  were  most  loth  to  do 
the  necessary  climbing.  Billy  suggested  that  we  might 
be  able  to  wade.  As  the  pool  below  the  cliff  was  black 
water  and  of  indeterminate  depth,  we  scouted  the  idea. 
Billy,  however,  poked  around  with  a  stick,  and,  as  I 
have  said,  discovered  a  little  ledge  about  a  foot  and 
a  half  wide  and  about  two  feet  and  a  half  below  the 
surface.  This  was  spectacular,  but  we  did  it  A  slip 
meant  a  swim  and  the  loss  of  the  pack.  We  did  not 
happen  to  slip.  Shortly  after  we  came  to  the  Big  Falls, 
and  so  after  further  painful  experiment  descended 
joyfully  into  known  country. 

The  freshet  had  gone  down,  the  weather  had 
warmed,  the  sun  shone,  we  caught  trout  for  lunch 
below  the  Big  Falls ;  everything  was  lovely.  By  three 
o'clock,  after  thrice  wading  the  stream,  we  regained 
our  canoe  —  now  at  least  forty  feet  from  the  water. 
We  paddled  across.  Deuce  followed  easily,  where  a 
week  before  he  had  been  sucked  down  and  nearly 
drowned.  We  opened  the  cache  and  changed  our 
very  travel-stained  garments.  We  cooked  ourselves 
a  luxurious  meal.  We  built  a  friendship-fire.  And  at 
last  we  stretched  our  tired  bodies  full  length  on  bal- 
sam a  foot  thick,  and  gazed  drowsily  at  the  canvas- 
blurred  moon  before  sinking  to  a  dreamless  sleep. 


199 


ON   WOODS   INDIANS 


■^ 


XV 
ON  WOODS   INDIANS 

FAR  in  the  North  dwell  a  people  practically  un- 
known to  any  but  the  fur-trader  and  the  explorer. 
Our  information  as  to  Mokis,  Sioux,  Cheyennes,  Nez 
Perces,  and  indirectly  many  others,  through  the  pages 
of  Cooper,  Parkman,  and  allied  writers,  is  varied 
enough,  so  that  our  ideas  of  Indians  are  pretty  well 
established.  If  we  are  romantic,  we  hark  back  to 
the  past  and  invent  fairy-tales  with  ourselves  anent 
the  Noble  Red  Man  who  has  Passed  Away.  If  we 
are  severely  practical,  we  take  notice  of  filth,  vice, 
plug-hats,  tin  cans,  and  laziness.  In  fact  we  might 
divide  all  Indian  concepts  into  two  classes,  follow- 
ing these  mental  and  imaginative  bents.  Then  we 
should  have  quite  simply  and  satisfactorily  the  Cooper 
Indian  and  the  Comic  Paper  Indian.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  the  latter  is  often  approximated  by 
reality  —  and  everybody  knows  it.  That  the  former 
is  by  no  means  a  myth  —  at  least  in  many  qualities 
—  the  average  reader  might  be  pardoned  for  doubt- 
ing. 

Some  time  ago  I  desired  to  increase  my  knowledge 
203 


THE  FOREST 

of  the  Woods  Indians  by  whatever  others  had  ao 
complished.  Accordingly  I  wrote  to  the  Ethnolo- 
gical Department  at  Washington  asking  what  had 
been  done  in  regard  tc  the  Ojibways  and  Wood 
Crees  north  of  Lake  Superior.  The  answer  was 
"  nothing." 

And  "  nothing  "  is  more  nearly  a  comprehensive 
answer  than  at  first  you  might  believe.  Visitors  at 
Mackinac,  Traverse,  Sault  Ste.  Marie,  and  other  north- 
ern resorts  are  besought  at  certain  times  of  the  year 
by  silent  calico-dressed  squaws  to  purchase  basket 
and  bark  work.  If  the  tourist  happens  to  follow 
these  women  for  more  wholesale  examination  of  their 
wares,  he  will  be  led  to  a  double-ended  Mackinaw- 
built  sailing-craft  with  red-dyed  sails,  half-pulled  out 
on  the  beach.  In  the  stern  sit  two  or  three  bucks 
wearing  shirts,  jean  trousers,  and  broad  black  hats. 
Some  of  the  oldest  men  may  sport  a  patched  pair  of 
moccasins  or  so,  but  most  are  conventional  enough 
in  clumsy  shoes.  After  a  longer  or  shorter  stay  they 
hoist  their  red  sails  and  drift  away  toward  some  mys- 
terious destination  on  the  north  shore.  If  the  buyer 
is  curious  enough  and  persistent  enough,  he  may 
elicit  the  fact  that  they  are  Ojibways. 

Now  if  this  same  tourist  happens  to  possess  a 
mildly  venturesome  disposition,  a  sailing-craft,  and  a 
chart  of  the  region,  he  will  sooner  or  later  blunder 
across  the  dwelling-place  of  his  silent  vendors.  At 
the  foot  of  some  rarely  frequented  bay  he  will  come 

204 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

on  a  diminutive  village  of  small  whitewashed  log 
houses.  It  will  differ  from  other  villages  in  that  the 
houses  are  arranged  with  no  reference  whatever  to 
one  another,  but  in  the  haphazard  fashion  of  an  en- 
campment. Its  inhabitants  are  his  summer  friends. 
If  he  is  of  an  insinuating  address,  he  may  get  a 
glimpse  of  their  daily  life.  Then  he  will  go  away 
firmly  convinced  that  he  knows  quite  a  lot  about 
the  North  Woods  Indian. 

And  so  he  does.  But  this  North  Woods  Indian  is 
the  Reservation  Indian.  And  in  the  North  a  Reserva- 
tion Indian  is  as  different  from  a  Woods  Indian  as 
a  negro  is  from  a  Chinese. 

Suppose  on  the  other  hand  your  tourist  is  unfor- 
tunate enough  to  get  left  at  some  North  Woods 
railway  station  where  he  has  descended  from  the 
transcontinental  to  stretch  his  legs,  and  suppose  him 
to  have  happened  on  a  fur-town  like  Missinaibie  at 
the  precise  time  when  the  trappers  are  in  from  the 
wilds.  Near  the  borders  of  the  village  he  will  come 
upon  a  little  encampment  of  conical  tepees.  At  his 
approach  the  women  and  children  will  disappear  into 
inner  darkness.  A  dozen  wolf-like  dogs  will  rush  out 
barking.  Grave-faced  men  will  respond  silently  to 
his  salutation. 

These  men,  he  will  be  interested  to  observe,  wear 
still  the  deer  or  moose  skin  moccasin  —  the  lightest 
and  easiest  footgear  for  the  woods ;  bind  their  long 
hair  with  a  narrow  fillet,  and  their  waists  with  a  red 

205 


THE  FOREST 

or  striped  worsted  sash ;  keep  warm  under  the 
blanket  thickness  of  a  Hudson  Bay  capote ;  and  deck 
their  clothes  with  a  variety  of  barbaric  ornament. 
He  will  see  about  camp  weapons  whose  acquaintance 
he  has  made  only  in  museums,  peltries  of  whose 
identification  he  is  by  no  means  sure,  and  as  matters 
of  daily  use  —  snow-shoes,  bark  canoes,  bows  and  ar- 
rows —  what  to  him  have  been  articles  of  ornament 
or  curiosity.  To-morrow  these  people  will  be  gone 
for  another  year,  carrying  with  them  the  results  of 
the  week's  barter.  Neither  he  nor  his  kind  will  see 
them  again,  unless  they  too  journey  far  into  the 
Silent  Places.  But  he  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
stolid  mask  of  the  Woods  Indian,  concerning  whom 
officially  "  nothing  "  is  known. 

In  many  respects  the  Woods  Indian  is  the  legiti- 
mate descendant  of  the  Cooper  Indian.  His  life  is 
led  entirely  in  the  forests ;  his  subsistence  is  assured 
by  hunting,  fishing,  and  trapping;  his  dwelling  is 
the  wigwam,  and  his  habitation  the  wide  reaches  of 
the  wilderness  lying  between  Lake  Superior  and  the 
Hudson  Bay ;  his  relation  to  humanity  confined  to 
intercourse  with  his  own  people  and  acquaintance 
with  the  men  who  barter  for  his  peltries.  So  his  de- 
pendence is  not  on  the  world  the  white  man  has 
brought,  but  on  himself  and  his  natural  environ- 
ment. Civilization  has  merely  ornamented  his  an- 
cient manner.  It  has  given  him  the  convenience  of 
cloth,  of  firearms,  of  steel  traps,  of  iron  kettles,  of 

206 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

matches ;  it  has  accustomed  him  to  the  luxuries  of 
white  sugar,  —  though  he  had  always  his  own  maple 
product,  —  tea,  flour,  and  white  man's  tobacco.  That 
is  about  all.  He  knows  nothing  of  whiskey.  The 
towns  are  never  visited  by  him,  and  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  will  sell  him  no  liquor.  His  concern 
with  you  is  not  great,  for  he  has  little  to  gain  from 
you. 

This  people,  then,  depending  on  natural  resources 
for  subsistence,  has  retained  to  a  great  extent  the 
qualities  of  the  early  aborigines. 

To  begin  with,  it  is  distinctly  nomadic.  The  great 
rolls  of  birch  bark  to  cover  the  pointed  tepees  are 
easily  transported  in  the  bottoms  of  canoes,  and  the 
poles  are  quickly  cut  and  put  in  place.  As  a  con- 
sequence the  Ojibway  family  is  always  on  the  move. 
It  searches  out  new  trapping-grounds,  new  fisheries, 
it  pays  visits,  it  seems  even  to  enjoy  travel  for  the 
sake  of  exploration.  In  winter  a  tepee  of  double 
wall  is  built,  whose  hollow  is  stuffed  with  moss  to 
keep  out  the  cold;  but  even  that  approximation  of 
permanence  cannot  stand  against  the  slightest  con- 
venience. When  an  Indian  kills,  often  he  does  not 
transport  his  game  to  camp,  but  moves  his  camp  to 
the  vicinity  of  the  carcass.  There  are  of  these  woods 
dwellers  no  villages,  no  permanent  clearings.  The 
vicinity  of  a  Hudson's  Bay  post  is  sometimes  occu- 
pied for  a  month  or  so  during  the  summer,  but  that 
is  all 

ao7 


THE  FOREST 

An  obvious  corollary  of  this  is  that  tribal  life  does 
not  consistently  obtain.  Throughout  the  summer 
months  when  game  and  fur  are  at  their  poorest  the 
bands  assemble,  probably  at  the  times  of  barter  with 
the  traders.  Then  for  the  short  period  of  the  idling 
season  they  drift  together  up  and  down  the  North 
Country  streams,  or  camp  for  big  powwows  and  con- 
juring near  some  pleasant  conflux  of  rivers.  But 
when  the  first  frosts  nip  the  leaves,  the  families  sepa- 
rate to  their  allotted  trapping-districts,  there  to  spend 
the  winter  in  pursuit  of  the  real  business  of  life. 

The  tribe  is  thus  split  into  many  groups,  ranging 
in  numbers  from  the  solitary  trapper,  eager  to  win 
enough  fur  to  buy  him  a  wife,  to  a  compact  little 
group  of  three  or  four  families  closely  related  in  blood. 
The  most  striking  consequence  is  that,  unlike  other 
Indian  bodies  politic,  there  are  no  regularly  consti- 
tuted and  acknowledged  chiefs.  Certain  individuals 
gain  a  remarkable  reputation  and  an  equally  remark- 
able respect  for  wisdom,  or  hunting  skill,  or  power 
of  woodcraft,  or  travel.  These  men  are  the  so-called 
"  old-men  "  often  mentioned  in  Indian  manifestoes, 
though  age  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  deference  ac- 
corded them.  Tawabinisay  is  not  more  than  thirty- 
five  years  old;  Peter,  our  Hudson  Bay  Indian,  is 
hardly  more  than  a  boy.  Yet  both  are  obeyed  im- 
plicitly by  whomever  they  happen  to  be  with ;  both 
lead  the  way  by  river  or  trail ;  and  both,  where  ques- 
tion arises,  are  sought  in  advice  by  men  old  enough 

208 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

to  be  their  fathers.  Perhaps  this  is  as  good  a  demo- 
cracy as  another. 

The  life  so  briefly  hinted  at  in  the  foregoing  lines, 
inevitably  develops  and  fosters  an  expertness  of  wood- 
craft almost  beyond  belief  The  Ojibway  knows  his 
environment.  The  forest  is  to  him  so  familiar  in 
each  and  every  one  of  its  numerous  and  subtle  as- 
pects that  the  slightest  departure  from  the  normal 
strikes  his  attention  at  once.  A  patch  of  brown 
shadow  where  green  shadow  should  fall,  a  shimmer- 
ing of  leaves  where  should  be  merely  a  gentle  wav- 
ing, a  cross-light  where  the  usual  forest  growth  should 
adumbrate,  a  flash  of  wings  at  a  time  of  day  when 
feathered  creatures  ordinarily  rest  quiet,  — these,  and 
hundreds  of  others  which  you  and  I  should  never 
even  guess  at,  force  themselves  as  glaringly  on  an  In- 
dian's notice  as  a  brass  band  in  a  city  street.  A  white 
man  looks  for  game;  an  Indian  sees  it  because  it 
differs  from  the  forest. 

That  is,  of  course,  a  matter  of  long  experience 
and  lifetime  habit.  Were  it  a  question  merely  of 
this,  the  white  man  might  also  in  time  attain  the  same 
skill.  But  the  Indian  is  a  better  animal.  His  senses 
are  appreciably  sharper  than  our  own. 

In  journeying  down  the  Kapuskasing  River,  our 
Indians — who  had  come  from  the  woods  to  guide  us 
—  always  saw  game  long  before  we  did.  They  would 
never  point  it  out  to  us.  The  bow  of  the  canoe 
would  swing  silently  in  its  direction,  there  to  rest 

209 


THE  FOREST 

motionless  until  we  indicated  we  had  seen  some- 
thing. 

"  Where  is  it,  Peter  ?  "  I  would  whisper. 

But  Peter  always  remained  contemptuously  si- 
lent. 

One  evening  we  paddled  directly  into  the  eye  of 
the  setting  sun  across  a  shallow  little  lake  filled  with 
hardly  sunken  boulders.  There  was  no  current,  and 
no  breath  of  wind  to  stir  the  water  into  betraying 
riffles.  But  invariably  those  Indians  twisted  the  canoe 
into  a  new  course  ten  feet  before  we  reached  one  of 
the  obstructions,  whose  existence  our  dazzled  vision 
could  not  attest  until  they  were  actually  below  us. 
They  saw  those  rocks,  through  the  shimmer  of  the 
surface  glare. 

Another  time  I  discovered  a  small  black  animal 
lying  flat  on  a  point  of  shale.  Its  head  was  concealed 
behind  a  boulder,  and  it  was  so  far  away  that  I  was 
inclined  to  congratulate  myself  on  having  differen- 
tiated it  from  the  shadow. 

"  What  is  it,  Peter  ^  "  I  asked. 

Peter  hardly  glanced  at  it. 

"  Ninny-moosh  "  (dog),  he  replied. 

Now  we  were  a  hundred  miles  south  of  the  Hud- 
son's Bay  post  and  two  weeks  north  of  any  other 
settlement.  Saving  a  horse,  a  dog  would  be  about  the 
last  thing  to  occur  to  one  in  guessing  at  the  identity 
of  any  strange  animal.  This  looked  like  a  little 
black  blotch,  without  form.    Yet  Peter  knew  it.    It 

2ZO 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

was  a  dog,  lost  from  some  Indian  hunting-party,  and 
mightily  glad  to  see  us. 

The  sense  of  smell  too  is  developed  to  an  extent 
positively  uncanny  to  us  who  have  needed  it  so  little. 
Your  Woods  Indian  is  always  sniffing,  always  test- 
ing the  impressions  of  other  senses  by  his  olfactories. 
Instances  numerous  and  varied  might  be  cited,  but 
probably  one  will  do  as  well  as  a  dozen.  It  once 
became  desirable  to  kill  a  caribou  in  country  where 
the  animals  are  not  at  all  abundant.  Tawabinisay 
volunteered  to  take  Jim  within  shot  of  one.  Jim 
describes  their  hunt  as  the  most  wonderful  bit  of 
stalking  he  had  ever  seen.  The  Indian  followed  the 
animaPs  tracks  as  easily  as  you  or  I  could  have  fol- 
lowed them  over  snow.  He  did  this  rapidly  and 
certainly.  Every  once  in  a  while  he  would  get  down 
on  all  fours  to  sniff  inquiringly  at  the  crushed  herb- 
age. Always  on  rising  to  his  feet  he  would  give  the 
result  of  his  investigations. 

"Ah-teek  (caribou)  one  hour." 

And  later,  "  Ah-teck  half  hour." 

Or  again,  "  Ah-teek  quarter  hour." 

And  finally,  "Ah-teek  over  nex'  hill." 

And  it  was  so. 

In  like  manner,  but  most  remarkable  to  us  be- 
cause the  test  of  direct  comparison  with  our  own 
sense  was  permitted  us,  was  their  acuteness  of  hear- 
ing. Often  while  "jumping"  a  roaring  rapids  in 
two  canoes,  my  companion  and  I  have  heard  our 

211 


THE  FOREST 

men  talking  to  each  other  in  quite  an  ordinary  tone 
of  voice.  That  is  to  say,  I  could  hear  my  Indian, 
and  Jim  could  hear  his ;  but  personally  we  were  forced 
to  shout  loudly  to  carry  across  the  noise  of  the 
stream.  The  distant  approach  of  animals  they  an- 
nounce accurately. 

"  Wawashkeshi  (deer),"  says  Peter. 

And  sure  enough,  after  an  interval,  we  too  could 
distinguish  the  footfalls  on  the  dry  leaves. 

As  both  cause  and  consequence  of  these  physical 
endowments  —  which  place  them  nearly  on  a  parity 
with  the  game  itself —  they  are  most  expert  hunters. 
Every  sportsman  knows  the  importance  —  and  also 
the  difficulty  —  of  discovering  game  before  it  dis- 
covers him.  The  Indian  has  here  an  immense  ad- 
vantage. And  after  game  is  discovered,  he  is  further- 
more most  expert  in  approaching  it  with  all  the 
refined  art  of  the  still  hunter. 

Mr.  Caspar  Whitney  describes  in  exasperation  his 
experience  with  the  Indians  of  the  Far  Northwest. 
He  complains  that  when  they  blunder  on  game,  they 
drop  everything  and  enter  into  almost  hopeless  chase, 
two  legs  against  four.  Occasionally  the  quarry  be- 
comes enough  bewildered  so  that  the  wild  shooting 
will  bring  it  down.  He  quite  justly  argues  that  the 
merest  pretense  at  caution  in  approach  would  result 
in  much  greater  success. 

The  Woods  Indian  is  no  such  fool.  He  is  a 
mighty  poor  shot  —  and  he  knows  it.     Personally  I 

212 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

believe  he  shuts  both  eyes  before  pulHng  trigger.  He 
is  armed  with  a  long  flint  or  percussion  lock  musket, 
whose  gas-pipe  barrel  is  bound  to  the  wood  that 
runs  its  entire  length  by  means  of  brass  bands,  and 
whose  effective  range  must  be  about  ten  yards.  This 
archaic  implement  is  known  as  a  ''  trade  gun,"  and 
has  the  single  merit  of  never  getting  out  of  order. 
Furthermore  ammunition  is  precious.  In  conse- 
quence the  wilderness  hunter  is  not  going  to  be  merely 
pretty  sure ;  he  intends  to  be  absolutely  certain.  If 
he  cannot  approach  near  enough  to  blow  a  hole  in 
his  prey,  he  does  not  fire. 

I  have  seen  Peter  drop  into  marsh-grass  so  thin  that 
apparently  we  could  discern  the  surface  of  the  ground 
through  it,  and  disappear  so  completely  that  our  most 
earnest  attention  could  not  distinguish  even  a  rustling 
of  the  herbage.  After  an  interval  his  gun  would  go 
off  from  some  distant  point,  exactly  where  some  ducks 
had  been  feeding  serenely  oblivious  to  fate.  Neither 
of  us  white  men  would  have  considered  for  a  moment 
the  possibility  of  getting  any  of  them.  Once  I  felt 
rather  proud  of  myself  for  killing  six  ruffed  grouse 
out  of  some  trees  with  the  pistol,  until  Peter  drifted 
in  carrying  three  he  had  bagged  with  a  stick. 

Another  interesting  phase  of  this  almost  perfect 
correspondence  to  environment  is  the  readiness  with 
which  an  Indian  will  meet  an  emergency.  We  are 
accustomed  to  rely  first  of  all  on  the  skilled  labor  of 
some  one  we  can  hire ;  second,  if  we  undertake  the 

213 


THE  FOREST 

job  ourselves,  on  the  tools  made  for  us  by  skilled 
labor ;  and  third,  on  the  shops  to  supply  us  with  the 
materials  we  may  need.  Not  once  in  a  lifetime  are 
we  thrown  entirely  on  our  own  resources.  Then  we 
improvise  bunglingly  a  makeshift. 

The  Woods  Indian  possesses  his  knife  and  his 
light  axe.  Nails,  planes,  glue,  chisels,  vises,  cord, 
rope,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  he  has  to  do  without.  But 
he  never  improvises  makeshifts.  No  matter  what 
the  exigency  or  how  complicated  the  demand,  his 
experience  answers  with  accuracy.  Utensils  and 
tools  he  knows  exactly  where  to  find.  His  job  is 
neat  and  workmanlike,  whether  it  is  a  bark  receptacle, 
—  water-tight  or  not,  —  a  pair  of  snow-shoes,  the  re- 
pairing of  a  badly  smashed  canoe,  the  construction 
of  a  shelter,  or  the  fashioning  of  a  paddle.  About 
noon  one  day  Tawabinisay  broke  his  axe-helve  square 
off.  This  to  us  would  have  been  a  serious  affair. 
Probably  we  should,  left  to  ourselves,  have  stuck  in 
some  sort  of  a  rough  straight  sapling  handle  which 
would  have  answered  well  enough  until  we  could 
have  bought  another.  By  the  time  we  had  cooked 
dinner  that  Indian  had  fashioned  another  helve.  We 
compared  it  with  the  store  article.  It  was  as  well 
shaped,  as  smooth,  as  nicely  balanced.  In  fact  as  we 
laid  the  new  and  the  old  side  by  side,  we  could  not 
have  selected,  from  any  evidence  of  the  workmanship, 
which  had  been  made  by  machine  and  which  by 
hand.     Tawabinisay  then  burned  out  the  wood  from 

214 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

the  axe,  rctempered  the  steel,  set  the  new  helve,  and 
wedged  it  neatly  with  ironwood  wedges.  The  whole 
affair,  including  the  cutting  of  the  timber,  consumed 
perhaps  half  an  hour. 

To  travel  with  a  Woods  Indian  is  a  constant  source 
of  delight  on  this  account.  So  many  little  things 
that  the  white  man  does  without  because  he  will  not 
bother  with  their  transportation,  the  Indian  makes 
for  himself  And  so  quickly  and  easily  I  I  have  seen 
a  thoroughly  waterproof,  commodious,  and  comfort- 
able bark  shelter  made  in  about  the  time  it  would 
take  one  to  pitch  a  tent.  I  have  seen  a  raft  built  of 
cedar  logs  and  cedar-bark  ropes  in  an  hour.  I  have 
seen  a  badly  stove  canoe  made  as  good  as  new  in 
fifteen  minutes.  The  Indian  rarely  needs  to  hunt  for 
the  materials  he  requires.  He  knows  exactly  where 
they  grow,  and  he  turns  as  directly  to  them  as  a  clerk 
would  turn  to  his  shelves.  No  problem  of  the  living 
of  physical  life  is  too  obscure  to  have  escaped  his 
varied  experience.  You  may  travel  with  Indians  for 
years,  and  learn  something  new  and  delightful  as  to 
how  to  take  care  of  yourself  every  summer. 

The  qualities  I  have  mentioned  come  primarily 
from  the  fact  that  the  Woods  Indian  is  a  hunter.  I 
have  now  to  instance  two  whose  development  can  be 
traced  to  the  other  fact,  —  that  he  is  a  nomad.  I  refer 
to  his  skill  with  the  bark  canoe  and  his  ability  to 
carry. 

I  was  once  introduced  to  a  man  at  a  little  way 

215 


THE  FOREST 

station  of  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railway  in  the  follow- 
ing words :  — 

"  Shake  hands  with  Munson ;  he  's  as  good  a  canoe- 
man  as  an  Indian." 

A  little  later  one  of  the  bystanders  remarked  to 
me:  — 

"  That  fellow  you  was  just  talking  with  is  as  good 
a  canoeman  as  an  Injin." 

Still  later,  at  an  entirely  different  place,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  bar  informed  me,  in  the  course  of  discus- 
sion :  — • 

"The  only  man  I  know  of  who  can  do  it  is 
named  Munson.  He  is  as  good  a  canoeman  as  an 
Indian." 

At  the  time  this  unanimity  of  praise  puzzled  me 
a  little.  I  thought  I  had  seen  some  pretty  good  canoe 
work,  and  even  cherished  a  mild  conceit  that  oc- 
casionally I  could  keep  right  side  up  myself  I  knew 
Munson  to  be  a  great  woods-traveler,  with  many 
striking  qualities,  and  why  this  of  canoemanship 
should  be  so  insistently  chosen  above  the  others  was 
beyond  my  comprehension.  Subsequently  a  com- 
panion and  I  journeyed  to  Hudson  Bay  with  two 
birch  canoes  and  two  Indians.  Since  that  trip  I  have 
had  a  vast  respect  for  Munson. 

Undoubtedly  among  the  half-breed  and  white 
guides  of  lower  Canada,  Maine,  and  the  Adiron- 
dacks  are  many  skillful  men.  But  they  know  their 
waters;  they  follow  a  beaten  track.     The  Woods 

216 


"  The  Indians  would  rise  to  their  feet  for  a  single  moment" 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

Indian  —  well,  let  me  tell  you  something  of  what  he 
does. 

We  went  down  the  Kapuskasing  River  to  the 
Mattagami,  and  then  down  that  to  the  Moose. 
These  rivers  are  at  first  but  a  hundred  feet  or  so 
wide,  but  rapidly  swell  with  the  influx  of  number- 
less smaller  streams.  Two  days'  journey  brings  you 
to  a  watercourse  nearly  half  a  mile  in  breadth ;  two 
weeks  finds  you  on  a  surface  approximately  a  mile 
and  a  half  across.  All  this  water  descends  from  the 
Height  of  Land  to  the  sea  level.  It  does  so  through 
a  rock  country.  The  result  is  a  series  of  roaring, 
dashing  boulder  rapids  and  waterfalls  that  would 
make  your  hair  stand  on  end  merely  to  contemplate 
from  the  banks. 

The  regular  route  to  Moose  Factory  is  by  the 
Missinaibie.  Our  way  was  new  and  strange.  No 
trails ;  no  knowledge  of  the  country.  When  we 
came  to  a  stretch  of  white  water,  the  Indians  would 
rise  to  their  feet  for  a  single  instant's  searching  ex- 
amination of  the  stretch  of  tumbled  water  before 
them.  In  that  moment  they  picked  the  passage 
they  were  to  follow  as  well  as  a  white  man  could 
have  done  so  in  half  an  hour's  study.  Then  with- 
out hesitation  they  shot  their  little  craft  at  the  green 
water. 

From  that  time  we  merely  tried  to  sit  still,  each 
in  his  canoe.  Each  Indian  did  it  all  with  his  sin- 
gle paddle.     He  seemed  to  possess  absolute  control 

217 


THE  FOREST 

over  his  craft.  Even  in  the  rush  of  water  which 
seemed  to  hurry  us  on  at  almost  railroad  speed,  he 
could  stop  for  an  instant,  work  directly  sideways, 
shoot  forward  at  a  slant,  swing  either  his  bow  or  his 
stern.  An  error  in  judgment  or  in  the  instantaneous 
acting  upon  it  meant  a  hit ;  and  a  hit  in  these  savage 
North  Country  rivers  meant  destruction.  How  my 
man  kept  in  his  mind  the  passage  he  had  planned 
during  his  momentary  inspection  was  always  to  me 
a  miracle.  How  he  got  so  unruly  a  beast  as  the 
birch  canoe  to  follow  it  in  that  tearing  volume  of 
water  was  always  another.  Big  boulders  he  dodged, 
eddies  he  took  advantage  of,  slants  of  current  he 
utilized.  A  fractional  second  of  hesitation  could  not 
be  permitted  him.  But  always  the  clutching  of 
white  hands  from  tae  rip  at  the  eddy  finally  con- 
veyed to  my  spray-drenched  faculties  that  the  rapid 
was  safely  astern.  And  this,  mind  you,  in  strange 
waters. 

Occasionally  we  would  carry  our  outfit  through 
the  woods,  while  the  Indians  would  shoot  some 
especially  bad  water  in  the  light  canoe.  As  a  spec- 
tacle nothing  could  be  finer.  The  flash  of  the  yel- 
low bark,  the  movement  of  the  broken  waters,  the 
gleam  of  the  paddle,  the  tense  alertness  of  the  men's 
figures,  their  carven,  passive  faces,  with  the  contrast 
of  the  flashing  eyes  and  the  distended  nostrils,  then 
the  leap  into  space  over  some  half-cataract,  the  smash 
of  spray,  the  exultant  yells  of  the  canoemen !   For 

218 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

your  Indian  enjoys  the  game  thoroughly.  And  it 
requires  very  bad  water  indeed  to  make  him  take  to 
the  brush. 

This  is  of  course  the  spectacular.  But  also  in  the 
ordinary  gray  business  of  canoe  travel  the  Woods 
Indian  shows  his  superiority.  He  is  tireless,  and 
composed  as  to  wrist  and  shoulder  of  a  number  of 
whalebone  springs.  From  early  dawn  to  dewy  eve, 
and  then  a  few  gratuitous  hours  into  the  night,  he 
will  dig  energetic  holes  in  the  water  with  his  long 
narrow  blade.  And  every  stroke  counts.  The  water 
boils  out  in  a  splotch  of  white  air-bubbles,  the  little 
suction  holes  pirouette  like  dancing  girls,  the  fabric 
of  the  craft  itself  trembles  under  the  power  of  the 
stroke.  Jim  and  I  used,  in  the  lake  stretches,  to 
amuse  ourselves  —  and  probably  the  Indians  —  by 
paddling  in  furious  rivalry  one  against  the  other. 
Then  Peter  would  make  up  his  mind  he  would  like 
to  speak  to  Jacob.  His  canoe  would  shoot  up  along- 
side as  though  the  Old  Man  of  the  Lake  had  laid 
his  hand  across  its  stern.  Would  I  could  catch  that 
trick  of  easy,  tireless  speed.  I  know  it  lies  some- 
what in  keeping  both  elbows  always  straight  and 
stiff,  in  a  lurch  forward  of  the  shoulders  at  the  end 
of  the  stroke.  But  that,  and  more !  Perhaps  one 
needs  a  copper  skin  and  beady  black  eyes  with  sur- 
fece  lights. 

Nor  need  you  hope  to  pole  a  canoe  upstream  as 
do  these  people.    Tawabinisay  uses  two  short  poles, 

319 


THE  FOREST 

one  in  either  hand,  kneels  amidships,  and  snakes 
that  Httle  old  canoe  of  his  upstream  so  fast  that  you 
would  swear  the  rapids  an  easy  matter  —  until  you 
tried  them  yourself  We  were  once  trailed  up  a 
river  by  an  old  Woods  Indian  and  his  interesting 
family.  The  outfit  consisted  of  canoe  Number  One 
—  item,  one  old  Injin,  one  boy  of  eight  years,  one 
dog;  canoe  Number  Two  —  item,  one  old  Injin 
squaw,  one  girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty,  one  dog; 
canoe  Number  Three  —  item,  two  little  girls  of  ten 
and  twelve,  one  dog.  We  tried  desperately  for 
three  days  to  get  away  from  this  party.  It  did  not 
seem  to  work  hard  at  all.  We  did.  Even  the  two 
little  girls  appeared  to  dip  the  contemplative  paddle 
from  time  to  time.  Water  boiled  back  of  our  own 
blades.  We  started  early  and  quit  late,  and  about 
as  we  congratulated  ourselves  over  our  evening  fire 
that  we  had  distanced  our  followers  at  last,  those 
three  canoes  would  steal  silently  and  calmly  about 
the  lower  bend  to  draw  ashore  below  us.  In  ten 
minutes  the  old  Indian  was  delivering  an  oration  to 
us,  squatted  in  resignation. 

The  Red  Gods  alone  know  what  he  talked  about. 
He  had  no  English,  and  our  Ojibway  was  of  the 
strictly  utilitarian.  But  for  an  hour  he  would  hold 
forth.  We  called  him  Talk-in-the-Face,  the  Great 
Indian  Chief  Then  he  would  drop  a  mild  hint  for 
saymon,  which  means  tobacco,  and  depart.  By  ten 
o'clock  the  next  morning  he  and  his  people  would 

220 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

overtake  us  in  spite  of  our  earlier  start.  Usually  we 
were  in  the  act  of  dragging  our  canoe  through  an 
especially  vicious  rapid  by  means  of  a  tow-line.  Their 
three  canoes,  even  to  the  children's,  would  ascend 
easily  by  means  of  poles.  Tow-lines  appeared  to  be 
unsportsmanlike  —  like  angle-worms.  Then  the  en- 
tire nine  —  including  the  dogs  —  would  roost  on 
rocks  and  watch  critically  our  methods. 

The  incident  had  one  value,  however ;  it  showed 
us  just  why  these  people  possess  the  marvelous  canoe 
skill  I  have  attempted  to  sketch.  The  little  boy  in 
the  leading  canoe  was  not  over  eight  or  nine  years 
of  age,  but  he  had  his  little  paddle  and  his  little  canoe- 
pole,  and  what  is  more,  he  already  used  them  intel- 
ligently and  well.  As  for  the  little  girls,  —  well,  they 
did  easily  feats  I  never  hope  to  emulate,  and  that 
without  removing  the  cowl-like  coverings  from  their 
heads  and  shoulders. 

The  same  early  habitude  probably  accounts  for 
their  ability  to  carry  weights  long  distances.  The 
Woods  Indian  is  not  a  mighty  man  physically. 
Most  of  them  are  straight  and  well  built,  but  of 
only  medium  height,  and  not  wonderfully  muscled. 
Peter  was  most  beautiful,  but  in  the  fashion  of  the 
flying  Mercury,  with  long  smooth  panther  muscles. 
He  looked  like  Uncas,  especially  when  his  keen 
hawk-face  was  fixed  in  distant  attention.  But  I  think 
I  could  have  wrestled  Peter  down.  Yet  time  and 
again  I  have  seen  that  Indian  carry  two  hundred 

221 


THE  FOREST 

pounds  for  some  miles  through  a  rough  country 
absolutely  without  trails.  And  once  I  was  witness 
of  a  feat  of  Tawabinisay  when  that  wily  savage  por- 
taged a  pack  of  fifty  pounds  and  a  two-man  canoe 
through  a  hill  country  for  four  hours  and  ten  minutes 
without  a  rest.  Tawabinisay  is  even  smaller  than 
Peter. 

So  much  for  the  qualities  developed  by  the  woods- 
life.  Let  us  now  examine  what  may  be  described  as 
the  inherent  characteristics  of  the  people. 


MS 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

iCOliTlHJJBJ}\ 


1'  ^' 


XVI 
ON  WOODS  INDIANS  (continued) 

IT  must  be  understood,  of  course,  that  I  offer  you 
only  the  best  of  my  subject.  A  people  counts 
for  what  it  does  well.  Also  I  instance  men  of  stand- 
ing in  the  loose  Indian  body  politic.  A  traveler  can 
easily  discover  the  reverse  of  the  medal.  These  have 
their  shirks,  their  do-nothings,  their  men  of  small  ac- 
count, just  as  do  other  races.  I  have  no  thought  of 
glorifying  the  noble  red  man,  nor  of  claiming  for  him 
a  freedom  from  human  imperfection — even  where  his 
natural  quality  and  training  count  the  most  —  greater 
than  enlightenment  has  been  able  to  reach. 

In  my  experience  the  honesty  of  the  Woods  In- 
dian is  of  a  very  high  order.  The  sense  of  mine  and 
thine  is  strongly  forced  by  the  exigencies  of  the  North 
Woods  life.  A  man  is  always  on  the  move,  he  is  al- 
ways exploring  the  unknown  countries.  Manifestly 
it  is  impossible  for  him  to  transport  the  entire  sum 
of  his  worldly  effects.  The  implements  of  winter  are 
a  burden  in  summer.  Also  the  return  journey  from 
distant  shores  must  be  provided  for  by  food-stations, 
to  be  relied  on.  The  solution  of  these  needs  is  the 
cache. 

885 


THE  FOREST 

And  the  cache  is  not  a  literal  term  at  all.  It  con- 
ceals nothing.  Rather  does  it  hold  aloft  in  long-legged 
prominence,  for  the  inspection  of  all  who  pass,  what 
the  owner  has  seen  fit  to  leave  behind.  A  heavy- 
platform  high  enough  from  the  ground  to  frustrate 
the  investigations  of  animals  is  all  that  is  required. 
Visual  concealment  is  unnecessary  because  in  the 
North  Country  a  cache  is  sacred.  On  it  may  depend 
the  life  of  a  man.  He  who  leaves  provisions  must 
find  them  on  his  return,  for  he  may  reach  them  starv- 
ing, and  the  length  of  his  out-journey  may  depend  on 
his  certainty  of  relief  at  this  point  on  his  in-journey. 
So  men  passing  touch  not  his  hoard,  for  some  day 
they  may  be  in  the  same  fix,  and  a  precedent  is  a 
bad  thing. 

Thus  in  parts  of  the  wildest  countries  of  northern 
Canada  I  have  unexpectedly  come  upon  a  birch  canoe 
in  capsized  suspension  between  two  trees  ;  or  a  whole 
bunch  of  snow-shoes  depending  fruit-like  beneath 
the  fans  of  a  spruce ;  or  a  tangle  of  steel  traps  thrust 
into  the  crevice  of  a  tree-root ;  or  a  supply  of  pork 
and  flour,  swathed  like  an  Egyptian  mummy,  occu- 
pying stately  a  high  bier.  These  things  we  have 
passed  by  reverently,  as  symbols  of  a  people's  trust 
in  its  kind. 

The  same  sort  of  honesty  holds  in  regard  to  smaller 
things.  I  have  never  hesitated  to  leave  in  my  camp 
firearms,  fishing-rods,  utensils  valuable  from  a  woods 
point  of  view,  even  a  watch  or  money.    Not  only 

236 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

have  I  never  lost  anything  in  that  manner,  but  once 
an  Indian  lad  followed  me  some  miles  after  the 
morning's  start  to  restore  to  me  a  half  dozen  trout 
flies  I  had  accidentally  left  behind. 

It  might  be  readily  inferred  that  this  quality  car- 
ries over  into  the  subtleties,  as  indeed  is  the  case. 
Mr.  MacDonald  of  Brunswick  House  once  discussed 
with  me  the  system  of  credits  carried  on  by  the  Hud- 
son's Bay  Company  with  the  trappers.  Each  family 
is  advanced  goods  to  the  value  of  two  hundred  dol- 
lars, with  the  understanding  that  the  debt  is  to  be 
paid  from  the  season's  catch. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  lose  a  good  deal,"  I 
ventured.  "  Nothing  could  be  easier  than  for  an  In- 
dian to  take  his  two  hundred  dollars'  worth  and  disap- 
pear in  the  woods.  You'd  never  be  able  to  find 
him." 

.Mr.  MacDonald's  reply  struck  me,  for  the  man 
had  twenty  years'  trading  experience. 

"I  have  never,"  said  he,  "in  a  long  woods-life 
known  but  one  Indian  liar." 

This  my  own  limited  woods-wandering  has  proved 
to  be  true  to  a  sometimes  almost  ridiculous  extent. 
The  most  trivial  statement  of  fact  can  be  relied  on, 
provided  it  is  given  outside  of  trade  or  enmity  or 
absolute  indifference.  The  Indian  loves  to  fool  the 
tenderfoot.  But  a  sober  measured  statement  you  can 
conclude  is  accurate.  And  if  an  Indian  promises  a 
thing,  he  will  accomplish  it.    He  expects  you  to  do 

227 


THE  FOREST 

the  same.  Watch  your  lightest  words  carefully  an 
you  would  retain  the  respect  of  your  red  associates. 

On  our  way  to  the  Hudson  Bay  we  rashly  asked 
Peter,  towards  the  last,  when  we  should  reach  Moose 
Factory.     He  deliberated. 

"  Thursday,"  said  he. 

Things  went  wrong;  Thursday  supplied  a  head 
wind.  We  had  absolutely  no  interest  in  reaching 
Moose  Factory  next  day ;  the  next  week  would  have 
done  as  well.  But  Peter,  deaf  to  expostulation,  en- 
treaty, and  command,  kept  us  traveling  from  six  in 
the  morning  until  after  twelve  at  night.  We  could  n't 
get  him  to  stop.    Finally  he  drew  the  canoes  ashore. 

"Moose-amik  quarter  hour,"  said  he. 

He  had  kept  his  word. 

The  Ojibway  possesses  a  great  pride  which  the  un- 
thinking can  ruffle  quite  unconsciously  in  many 
ways.  Consequently  the  Woods  Indian  is  variously 
described  as  a  good  guide  or  a  bad  one.  The  differ- 
ence lies  in  whether  you  suggest  or  command. 

"  Peter,  you  've  got  to  make  Chicawgun  to-night 
Get  a  move  on  you  ! "  will  bring  you  sullen  service, 
and  probably  breed  kicks  on  the  grub  supply,  which 
is  the  immediate  precursor  of  mutiny. 

"  Peter,  it 's  a  long  way  to  Chicawgun.  Do  you 
think  we  make  him  to-night  ?  "  on  the  other  hand, 
will  earn  you  at  least  a  serious  consideration  of  the 
question.    And  if  Peter  says  you  can,  you  will. 

For  the  proper  man  the  Ojibway  takes  a  great 
228 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

pride  in  his  woodcraft,  the  neatness  of  his  camps,  the 
savory  quality  of  his  cookery,  the  expedition  of  his 
travel,  the  size  of  his  packs,  the  patience  of  his  en- 
durance. On  the  other  hand  he  can  be  as  sullen,  in- 
efficient, stupid,  and  vindictive  as  any  man  of  any 
race  on  earth.  I  suppose  the  faculty  of  getting  along 
with  men  is  largely  inherent.  Certainly  it  is  blended 
of  many  subtleties.  To  be  friendly,  to  retain  respect, 
to  praise,  to  preserve  authority,  to  direct  and  yet  to 
leave  detail,  to  exact  what  is  due,  and  yet  to  deserve 
it  —  these  be  the  qualities  of  a  leader  and  cannot  be 
taught. 

In  general  the  Woods  Indian  is  sober.  He  cannot 
get  whiskey  regularly,  to  be  sure,  but  I  have  often 
seen  the  better  class  of  Ojibways  refuse  a  drink,  say- 
ing that  they  did  not  care  for  it.  He  starves  well, 
and  keeps  going  on  nothing  long  after  hope  is  van- 
ished. He  is  patient,  yea,  very  patient,  under  toil,  and 
so  accomplishes  great  journeys,  overcomes  great  diffi- 
culties, and  does  great  deeds  by  means  of  this  hand- 
maiden of  genius.  According  to  his  own  standards 
is  he  clean.  To  be  sure  his  baths  are  not  numer- 
ous, nor  his  laundry-days  many,  but  he  never  cooks 
antil  he  has  washed  his  hands  and  arms  to  the  very 
shoulders.  Other  details  would  but  corroborate  the 
impression  of  this  instance,  —  that  his  ideas  differ 
from  ours,  as  is  his  right,  but  that  he  lives  up  to  his 
ideas.  Also  is  he  hospitable,  expecting  nothing  in  re- 
turn.  After  your  canoe  is  afloat  and  your  paddle  in 

229 


THE  FOREST 

the  river,  two  or  three  of  his  youngsters  will  splash 
in  after  you  to  toss  silver  fish  to  your  necessities. 
And  so  always  he  will  wait  until  this  last  tnoment  of 
departure  in  order  that  you  will  not  feel  called  on  to 
give  him  something  in  return.  Which  is  true  tact 
and  kindliness,  and  worthy  of  high  praise. 

Perhaps  I  have  not  strongly  enough  insisted  that 
the  Indian  nations  differ  as  widely  from  one  another 
as  do  unallied  races.  We  found  this  to  be  true  even 
in  the  comparatively  brief  journey  from  Chapleau  to 
Moose.  After  pushing  through  a  trackless  wilder- 
ness without  having  laid  eyes  on  a  human  being, 
excepting  the  single  instance  of  three  French  voy- 
ageurs  going  heaven  knows  where,  we  were  antici- 
pating pleasurably  our  encounter  with  the  traders  at 
the  Factory,  and  naturally  supposed  that  Peter  and 
Jacob  would  be  equally  pleased  at  the  chance  of 
visiting  with  their  own  kind.  Not  at  all.  When 
we  reached  Moose,  our  Ojibways  wrapped  them- 
selves in  a  mantle  of  dignity,  and  stalked  scornful 
amidst  obsequious  clans.  For  the  Ojibway  is  great 
among  Indians,  verily  much  greater  than  the  Moose 
River  Crees.  Had  it  been  a  question  of  Rupert's 
River  Crees  with  their  fierce  blood-laws,  their  con- 
juring-lodges,  and  their  pagan  customs,  the  affair 
might  have  been  different. 

For,  mark  you,  the  Moose  River  Cree  is  little 
among  hunters,  and  he  conducts  the  chase  miscel- 
laneously over  his  district  without  thought  to  the 

230 


■HH^^^^^H 

Hi 

F  "^    « Ir  ^^^B^^^^^^^^^^^^^K 

^HVjH^, 

^^^^1 

\      %  ^^W     M 

^^H 

^~M 

fl 

-■•^^^^^KI^H 

V  ^S 

^^1 

1              S'       » 

■I  '7   ^HimL 

J 

'-i'^^^^H 

^^K&y^  ^^aw  ^      \       i 

»»^  dsUHHHHi^^HHI^^^IH 

■ 

ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

preservation  of  the  beaver,  and  he  works  in  the  hay 
marshes  during  the  summer,  and  is  short,  squab, 
and  dirty,  and  generally  ka-win-ni-shi-shin.  The  old 
sacred  tribal  laws,  which  are  better  than  a  religion 
because  they  are  practically  adapted  to  northern 
life,  have  among  them  been  allowed  to  lapse.  Trav- 
elers they  are  none,  nor  do  their  trappers  get  far 
from  the  Company's  pork-barrels.  So  they  inbreed 
ignobly  for  lack  of  outside  favor,  and  are  dying 
from  the  face  of  the  land  through  dire  diseases,  just 
as  their  reputations  have  already  died  from  men's 
respect. 

The  great  unwritten  law  of  the  forest  is  that,  save 
as  provision  during  legitimate  travel,  one  may  not 
hunt  in  his  neighbor's  district.  Each  trapper  has 
assigned  him,  or  gets  by  inheritance  or  purchase, 
certain  territorial  power.  In  his  land  he  alone  may 
trap.  He  knows  the  beaver-dams,  how  many  ani- 
mals each  harbors,  how  large  a  catch  each  will  stand 
without  diminution  of  the  supply.  So  the  fur  is 
made  to  last.  In  the  southern  district  this  division 
is  tacitly  agreed  upon.  It  is  not  etiquette  to  poach. 
What  would  happen  to  a  poacher  no  one  knows, 
simply  because  the  necessity  for  finding  out  has  not 
arisen.  Tawabinisay  controls  from  Batchawanung 
to  Agawa.  There  old  Waboos  takes  charge.  And 
so  on.  But  in  the  Far  North  the  control  is  more 
often  disputed,  and  there  the  blood-law  still  holds. 
An  illegal  trapper  baits  his  snares  with  his  life.    If 

231 


THE  FOREST 

discovered,  he  is  summarily  shot.  So  is  the  game 
preserved. 

The  Woods  Indian  never  kills  wastefully.  The 
mere  presence  of  game  does  not  breed  in  him  a  lust 
to  slaughter  something.  Moderation  you  learn  of 
him  first  of  all.  Later,  provided  you  are  with  him 
long  enough  and  your  mind  is  open  to  mystic  in- 
fluence, you  will  feel  the  strong  impress  of  his  idea 
—  that  the  animals  of  the  forest  are  not  lower  than 
man,  but  only  different.  Man  is  an  animal  living 
the  life  of  the  forest ;  the  beasts  are  also  a  body  poli- 
tic speaking  a  different  language  and  with  different 
view-points.  Amik,  the  beaver,  has  certain  ideas  as 
to  the  conduct  of  life,  certain  habits  of  body,  and 
certain  bias  of  thought.  His  scheme  of  things  is 
totally  at  variance  with  that  held  by  Me-en-gan,  the 
wolf,  but  even  to  us  whites  the  two  are  on  a  parity. 
Man  has  still  another  system.  One  is  no  better  than 
another.  They  are  merely  different.  And  just  as 
Me-en-gan  preys  on  Amik,  so  does  Man  kill  for  his 
own  uses. 

Thence  are  curious  customs.  A  Rupert  River 
Cree  will  not  kill  a  bear  unless  he,  the  hunter,  is  in 
gala  attire,  and  then  not  until  he  has  made  a  short 
speech  in  which  he  assures  his  victim  that  the  affair 
is  not  one  of  personal  enmity,  but  of  expedience, 
and  that  anyway  he,  the  bear,  will  be  better  off  in 
the  Hereafter.  And  then  the  skull  is  cleaned  and  set 
on  a  pole  near  running  water,  there  to  remain  during 

232 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

twelve  moons.  Also  at  the  tail-root  of  a  newly  de- 
ceased beaver  is  tied  a  thong  braided  of  red  wool 
and  deerskin.  And  many  other  curious  habitudes 
which  would  be  of  slight  interest  here.  Likewise 
do  they  conjure  up  by  means  of  racket  and  fasting 
the  familiar  spirits  of  distant  friends  or  enemies,  and 
on  these  spirits  fasten  a  blessing  or  a  curse. 

From  this  it  may  be  deduced  that  missionary  work 
has  not  been  as  thorough  as  might  be  hoped.  That  is 
true.  The  Woods  Indian  loves  to  sing,  and  pos- 
sesses quaint  melodies,  or  rather  intonations,  of  his 
own.  But  especially  does  he  delight  in  the  long- 
drawn  wail  of  some  of  our  old-fashioned  hymns.  The 
church  oftenest  reaches  him  through  them.  I  know 
nothing  stranger  than  the  sight  of  a  little  half-lit 
church  filled  with  Indians  swaying  unctuously  to 
and  fro  in  the  rhythm  of  a  cadence  old  Watts  would 
have  recognized  with  difficulty.  The  religious  feel- 
ing of  the  performance  is  not  remarkable,  but  per- 
haps it  does  as  a  starting-point. 

Exactly  how  valuable  the  average  missionary  work 
is,  I  have  been  puzzled  to  decide.  Perhaps  the  church 
needs  more  intelhgence  in  the  men  it  sends  out.  The 
evangelist  is  usually  filled  with  narrow  preconceived 
notions  as  to  the  proper  physical  life.  He  squeezes 
his  savage  into  log  houses,  boiled  shirts,  and  boots. 
When  he  has  succeeded  in  getting  his  tuberculosis 
crop  well  started,  he  offers  as  compensation  a  doc- 
trinal religion  admirably  adapted  to  us,  who  have 

233 


THE  FOREST 

within  reach  of  century-trained  perceptions  a  thou- 
sand of  the  subtler  associations  a  savage  can  know  no- 
thing about.  If  there  is  enough  ghtter  and  tin  steeple 
and  high-sounding  office  and  gilt  good-behavior  card 
to  it,  the  red  man's  pagan  heart  is  tickled  in  its 
vanity,  and  he  dies  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  —  and  of 
a  filth  his  out-of-door  life  has  never  taught  him  how 
to  avoid.  The  Indian  is  like  a  raccoon:  in  his  proper 
surroundings  he  is  clean  morally  and  physically 
because  he  knows  how  to  be  so ;  but  in  a  cage  he  is 
filthy  because  he  does  not  know  how  to  be  other- 
wise. 

I  must  not  be  understood  as  condemning  mission- 
ary work ;  only  the  stupid  missionary  work  one  most 
often  sees  in  the  North.  Surely  Christianity  should 
be  adaptable  enough  in  its  little  things  to  fit  any 
people  with  its  great.  It  seems  hard  for  some  men 
to  believe  that  it  is  not  essential  for  a  real  Christian  to 
wear  a  plug-hat.  One  God,  love,  kindness,  charity, 
honesty,  right  living,  may  thrive  as  well  in  the  wig- 
wam as  in  a  four-square  house,  —  provided  you  let 
them  wear  moccasins  and  a  capote  wherewith  to  keep 
themselves  warm  and  vital. 

Tawabinisay  must  have  had  his  religious  training 
at  the  hands  of  a  good  man.  He  had  lost  none  of 
his  aboriginal  virtue  and  skill,  as  may  be  gathered 
from  what  I  have  before  said  of  him,  and  had  gained 
in  addition  certain  of  the  gentle  qualities.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  gauge  exactly  the  extent  of  his 

234 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

religious  understandings  for  Tawabinisay  is  a  silent 
individual  and  possesses  very  little  English,  but  I  do 
know  that  his  religious  y>(?//«^  was  deep  and  reverent. 
He  never  swore  in  English ;  he  did  not  drink ;  he 
never  traveled  or  hunted  or  fished  on  Sunday  when 
he  could  possibly  help  it.  These  virtues  he  wore 
modestly  and  unassumingly  as  an  accustomed  gar- 
ment. Yet  he  was  the  most  gloriously  natural  man 
I  have  ever  met. 

The  main  reliance  of  his  formalism  when  he  was 
off  in  the  woods  seemed  to  be  a  little  tattered  vol- 
ume, which  he  perused  diligently  all  Sunday,  and 
wrapped  carefully  in  a  strip  of  oiled  paper  during 
the  rest  of  the  week.  One  day  I  had  a  chance  to 
look  at  this  book  while  its  owner  was  away  after 
spring  water.  Every  alternate  page  was  in  the  pho- 
netic Indian  symbols,  of  which  more  hereafter.  The 
rest  was  in  French,  and  evidently  a  translation.  Al- 
though the  volume  was  of  Roman  Catholic  origin, 
creed  was  conspicuously  subordinated  to  the  needs 
of  the  class  it  aimed  to  reach.  A  confession  of  faith, 
quite  simple,  in  One  God,  a  Saviour,  a  Mother  of 
Heaven ;  a  number  of  Biblical  extracts  rich  in  im- 
agery and  applicability  to  the  experience  of  a  woods- 
dweller;  a  dozen  simple  prayers  of  the  kind  the 
natural  man  would  oftenest  find  occasion  to  express 
—  a  prayer  for  sickness,  for  bounty,  for  fair  weather, 
for  ease  of  travel,  for  the  smiling  face  of  Providence ; 
and  then  some  hymns.    To  me  the  selection  seemed 

235 


THE  FOREST 

most  judicious.  It  answered  the  needs  of  Tawabini- 
say's  habitual  experiences,  and  so  the  red  man  was  a 
good  and  consistent  convert.  Irresistibly  I  was  led 
to  contemplate  the  idea  of  any  one  trying  to  get 
Tawabinisay  to  live  in  a  house,  to  cut  cordwood  with 
an  axe,  to  roost  on  a  hard  bench  under  a  tin  steeple, 
to  wear  stiff  shoes,  and  to  quit  forest  roamings. 

The  written  language  mentioned  above,  you  will 
see  often  in  the  Northland.  Whenever  an  Indian 
band  camps,  it  blazes  a  tree  and  leaves,  as  record  for 
those  who  may  follow,  a  message  written  in  the  pho- 

netic  character.  I  do  not  understand  exactly  the 
philosophy  of  it,  but  I  gather  that  each  sound  has  a 
symbol  of  its  own,  like  shorthand,  and  that  therefore 
even  totally  different  languages,  such  as  Ojibway,  the 
Wood  Cree,  or  the  Hudson  Bay  Esquimaux,  may 
all  be  written  in  the  same  character.  It  was  invented 
nearly  a  hundred  years  ago  by  a  priest.  So  simple 
is  it,  and  so  needed  a  method  of  intercommunication, 
that  its  use  is  now  practically  universal.  Even  the 
youngsters  understand  it,  for  they  are  early  instructed 

236 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

in  its  mysteries  during  the  long  winter  evenings. 
On  the  preceding  page  is  a  message  I  copied  from 
a  spruce-tree  two  hundred  miles  from  anywhere  on 
the  Mattagami  River. 

Besides  this  are  numberless  formal  symbols  in  con- 
stant use.  Forerunners  on  a  trail  stick  a  twig  in  the 
ground  whose  point  indicates  exactly  the  position  of 
the  sun.  Those  who  follow  are  able  to  estimate,  by 
noting  how  far  beyond  the  spot  the  twig  points  to 
the  sun  has  traveled,  how  long  a  period  of  time  has 
elapsed.   A  stick  pointed  in  any  given  direction  tells 


jK      J^ 


Saff' ■'■**»» 


A  short  journey.  A  medium  journey.  A  long  journey 

the  route,  of  course.  Another  planted  upright  across 
the  first  shows  by  its  position  how  long  a  journey  is 
contemplated.  A  little  sack  suspended  at  the  end  of 
the  pointer  conveys  information  as  to  the  state  of  the 
larder,  lean  or  fat  according  as  the  little  sack  contains 
more  or  less  gravel  or  sand.  A  shred  of  rabbit-skin 
means  starvation.  And  so  on  in  variety  useless  in  any 
but  an  ethnological  work. 

The  Ojib ways'  tongue  is  soft,  and  full  of  decided 
lisping  and  sustained  hissing  sounds.  It  is  spoken 
with  somewhat  of  a  sing-song  drawl.  We  always 
had  a  fancy  that  somehow  it  was  of  forest  growth, 
and  that  its  syllables  were  intended  in  the  scheme  of 

237 


THE  FOREST 

things  to  blend  with  the  woods-noises,  just  as  the 
feathers  of  the  mother  partridge  blend  with  the 
woods-colors.  In  general  it  is  polysyllabic.  That 
applies  especially  to  concepts  borrowed  of  the  white 
men.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Ojibways  describe  in 
monosyllables  many  ideas  we  could  express  only  in 
phrase.  They  have  a  single  word  for  the  notion, 
Place-where-an-animal-slept-last-night.  Our  "  lair," 
"  form,"  etc.,  do  not  mean  exactly  that.  Its  genius, 
moreover,  inclines  to  a  flexible  verb-form,  by  which 
adjectives  and  substantives  are  often  absorbed  into 
the  verb  itself,  so  that  one  beautiful  singing  word  will 
convey  a  whole  paragraph  of  information.  My  little 
knowledge  of  it  is  so  entirely  empirical  that  it  can 
possess  small  value. 

In  concluding  these  desultory  remarks,  I  want  to 
tell  you  of  a  very  curious  survival  among  the  Ojib- 
ways and  Ottawas  of  the  Georgian  Bay.  It  seems 
that  some  hundreds  of  years  ago  these  ordinarily 
peaceful  folk  descended  on  the  Iroquois  in  what  is 
now  New  York  and  massacred  a  village  or  so.  Then, 
like  small  boys  who  have  thrown  only  too  accurately 
at  the  delivery  wagon,  they  scuttled  back  home  again. 
Since  that  time  they  have  lived  in  deadly  fear  of 
retribution.  The  Iroquois  have  long  since  disap- 
peared from  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  even  to-day 
the  Georgian  Bay  Indians  are  subject  to  periodical 
spasms  of  terror.  Some  wild-eyed  and  imaginative 
youth  sees  at  sunset  a  canoe  far  down  the  horizon. 

238 


ON  WOODS  INDIANS 

Immediately  the  villages  are  abandoned  in  haste, 
and  the  entire  community  moves  up  to  the  head 
waters  of  streams,  there  to  lurk  until  convinced  that 
all  danger  is  past.  It  does  no  good  to  tell  these 
benighted  savages  that  they  are  safe  from  vengeance, 
at  least  in  this  world.  The  dreaded  name  of  Iroquois 
is  potent,  even  across  the  centuries. 


239 


THE  CATCHING  OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 


XVII 
THE   CATCHING   OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 

WE  settled  down  peacefully  on  the  River,  and 
the  weather,  after  so  much  enmity,  was  kind 
to  us.  Likewise  did  the  flies  disappear  from  the 
woods  utterly.     . 

Each  morning  we  arose  as  the  Red  Gods  willed; 
generally  early,  when  the  sun  was  just  gilding  the 
peaks  to  the  westward ;  but  not  too  early,  before  the 
white  veil  had  left  the  River.  Billy,  with  woods- 
man's contempt  for  economy,  hewed  great  logs  and 
burned  them  nobly  in  the  cooking  of  trout,  oatmeal, 
pancakes,  and  the  like.  We  had  constructed  our- 
selves tables  and  benches  between  green  trees,  and 
there  we  ate.  And  great  was  the  eating  beyond  the 
official  capacity  of  the  human  stomach.  There  offered 
little  things  to  do,  delicious  little  things  just  on  the 
hither  side  of  idleness.  A  rod  wrapping  needed  more 
waxed  silk ;  a  favorite  fly  required  attention  to  pre- 
vent dissolution;  the  pistol  was  to  be  cleaned;  a  flag- 
pole seemed  desirable ;  a  trifle  more  of  balsam  could 
do  no  harm;  clothes  might  stand  drying,  blankets 
airing.  We  accomplished  these  things  leisurely,  paus- 
ing for  the  telling  of  stories,  for  the  puffing  of  pipes, 

243 


THE  FOREST 

for  the  sheer  joy  of  contemplations.  Deerskin  slipper 
moccasins  and  flapping  trousers  attested  our  desha- 
bille. And  then  somehow  it  was  noon,  and  Billy 
again  at  the  Dutch  oven  and  the  broiler. 

Trout  we  ate,  and  always  more  trout.  Big  fellows 
broiled  with  strips  of  bacon  craftily  sewn  in  and  out 
of  the  pink  flesh  ;  medium  fellows  cut  into  steaks ; 
little  fellows  fried  crisp  in  corn-meal;  big,  medium, 
and  little  fellows  mingled  in  component  of  the  famous 
North  Country  bouillon^  whose  other  ingredients  are 
partridges,  and  tomatoes,  and  potatoes,  and  onions, 
and  salt  pork,  and  flour  in  combination  delicious 
beyond  belief  Nor  ever  did  we  tire  of  them,  three 
times  a  day,  printed  statement  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding. And  besides  were  many  crafty  dishes 
over  whose  construction  the  major  portion  of  morn- 
ing idleness  was  spent. 

Now  at  two  o'clock  we  groaned  temporary  little 
groans ;  and  crawled  shrinking  into  our  river  clothes, 
which  we  dared  not  hang  too  near  the  fire  for  fear  of 
the  disintegrating  scorch,  and  drew  on  soggy  hob- 
nailed shoes  with  holes  cut  in  the  bottom,  and 
plunged  with  howls  of  disgust  into  the  upper  rif- 
fles. Then  the  cautious  leg-straddled  passage  of  the 
swift  current,  during  which  we  forgot  forever — which 
eternity  alone  circles  the  bliss  of  an  afternoon  on  the 
River  —  the  chill  of  the  water,  and  so  came  to  the 
trail. 

Now  at  the  Idiot's  Delight  Dick  and  I  parted  com- 
344 


THE  CATCHING  OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 

pany.  By  three  o'clock  I  came  again  to  the  River, 
far  up,  halfway  to  the  Big  Falls.  Deuce  watched 
me  gravely.  With  the  first  click  of  the  reel  he  re- 
tired to  the  brush  away  from  the  back  cast,  there  to 
remain  until  the  pool  was  fished  and  we  could  con- 
tinue our  journey. 

In  the  swift  leaping  water,  at  the  smooth  back  of 
the  eddy,  in  the  white  foam,  under  the  dark  cliff 
shadow,  here,  there,  everywhere  the  bright  flies  drop 
softly  like  strange  snowflakes.  The  game  is  as  inter- 
esting as  pistol-shooting.  To  hit  the  mark,  that  is 
enough.  And  then  a  swirl  of  water  and  a  broad  lazy 
tail  wakes  you  to  the  fact  that  other  matters  are  yours. 
Verily  the  fish  of  the  North  Country  are  mighty 
beyond  all  others. 

Over  the  River  rests  the  sheen  of  light,  over  the 
hills  rests  the  sheen  of  romance.  The  land  is  en- 
chanted. Birds  dip  and  sway,  advance  and  retreat, 
leaves  toss  their  hands  in  greeting,  or  bend  and  whis- 
per one  to  the  other ;  splashes  of  sun  fall  heavy  as 
metal  through  the  yielding  screens  of  branches ;  little 
breezes  wander  hesitatingly  here  and  there  to  sink 
like  spent  kites  on  the  nearest  bar  of  sun-warmed 
shingle;  the  stream  shouts  and  gurgles,  murmurs, 
hushes,  lies  still  and  secret  as  though  to  warn  you 
to  discretion,  breaks  away  with  a  shriek  of  hilarity 
when  your  discretion  has  been  assured.  There  is  in 
you  a  great  leisure,  as  though  the  day  would  never 
end.   There  is  in  you  a  great  keenness.   One  part  of 

245 


THE  FOREST 

you  is  vibrantly  alive.  Your  wrist  muscles  contract 
almost  automatically  at  the  swirl  of  a  rise,  and  the 
hum  of  life  along  the  gossamer  of  your  line  gains  its 
communication  with  every  nerve  in  your  body.  The 
question  of  gear  and  method  you  attack  clear-minded. 
What  fly  ?  Montreal,  Parmachenee  Belle,  Royal 
Coachman,  Silver  Doctor,  Professor,  Brown  Hackle, 
Cowdung, — these  grand  lures  for  the  North  Country 
trout  receive  each  its  due  test  and  attention.  And 
on  the  tail  snell  what  fisherman  has  not  the  Gamble 
- —  the  unusual,  obscure,  multinamed  fly  which  may, 
in  the  occultism  of  his  taste,  attract  the  Big  Fellows? 
Besides  there  remains  always  the  handling.  Does 
your  trout  to-day  fancy  the  skittering  of  his  food,  or 
the  withdrawal  in  three  jerks,  or  the  inch-deep  sink- 
ing of  the  fly  ?  Does  he  want  it  across  current  or  up 
current,  will  he  rise  with  a  snap,  or  is  he  going  to 
come  slowly,  or  is  he  going  to  play  ?  These  be  prob- 
lems interesting,  insistent  to  be  solved,  with  the  ready 
test  within  the  reach  of  your  skill. 

But  that  alertness  is  only  the  one  side  of  your  mood. 
No  matter  how  difficult  the  selection,  how  strenuous 
the  fight,  there  is  in  you  a  large  feeling  that  might 
almost  be  described  as  Buddhistic.  Time  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  your  problems.  The  world  has 
quietly  run  down,  and  has  been  embalmed  with  all  its 
sweetness  of  light  and  color  and  sound  in  a  warm 
lethe  bath  of  sun.  This  afternoon  is  going  to  last 
forever.    You  note  and  enjoy  and  savor  the  little 

246 


THE  CATCHING  OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 

pleasures  unhurried  by  the  thought  that  anything  else, 
whether  of  pleasure  or  duty,  is  to  follow. 

And  so  for  long  delicious  eons.  The  River  flows 
on,  ever  on ;  the  hills  watch,  watch  always  ;  the  birds 
sing,  the  sun  shines  grateful  across  your  shoulders; 
the  big  trout  and  the  little  rise  in  predestined  order 
and  make  their  predestined  fight  and  go  their  predes- 
tined way  either  to  liberty  or  the  creel ;  the  pools  and 
the  rapids  and  the  riffles  slip  by  upstream  as  though 
they  had  been  withdrawn  rather  than  as  though  you 
had  advanced. 

Then  suddenly  the  day  has  dropped  its  wings.  The 
earth  moves  forward  with  a  jar.  Things  are  to  be 
accomplished ;  things  are  being  accomplished.  The 
River  is  hurrying  down  to  the  Lake  ;  the  birds  have 
business  of  their  own  to  attend  to,  an  it  please  you ; 
the  hills  are  waiting  for  something  that  has  not  yet 
happened,  but  they  are  ready.  Startled,  you  look  up. 
The  afternoon  has  finished.  Your  last  step  has  taken 
you  over  the  edge  of  the  shadow  cast  by  the  setting 
sun  across  the  range  of  hills. 

For  the  first  time  you  look  about  you  to  see  where 
you  are.  It  has  not  mattered  before.  Now  you  know 
that  shortly  it  will  be  dark.  Still  remain  below  you 
four  pools.   A  great  haste  seizes  you. 

"  If  I  take  my  rod  apart,  and  strike  through  the 
woods,"  you  argue,  "  I  can  make  the  Narrows,  and  I 
am  sure  there  is  a  big  trout  there." 

Why  the  Narrows  should  be  any  more  likely  to 
247 


THE  FOREST 

contain  a  big  trout  than  any  of  the  other  three  pools 
you  would  not  be  able  to  explain.  In  half  an  hour  it 
will  be  dark.  You  hurry.  In  the  forest  it  is  already 
twilight,  but  by  now  you  know  the  forest  well.  Pre- 
occupied, feverish  with  your  great  idea,  you  hasten 
on.  The  birds,  silent  all  in  the  brooding  of  night, 
rise  ghostly  to  right  and  left.  Shadows  steal  away 
like  hostile  spies  among  the  tree-trunks.  The  silver 
of  last  daylight  gleams  ahead  of  you  through  the 
brush.  You  know  it  for  the  Narrows,  whither  the 
instinct  of  your  eagerness  has  led  you  as  accurately 
as  a  compass  through  the  forest. 

Fervently,  as  though  this  were  of  world's  affairs 
the  most  important,  you  congratulate  yourself  on 
being  in  time.  Your  rod  seems  to  joint  itself  In  a 
moment  the  cast  drops  like  a  breath  on  the  molten 
silver.  Nothing.  Another  try  a  trifle  lower  down. 
Nothing.  A  little  wandering  breeze  spoils  your  fourth 
attempt,  carrying  the  leader  far  to  the  left.  Curses, 
deep  and  fervent.  The  daylight  is  fading,  draining 
away.  A  fifth  cast  falls  forty  feet  out.  Slowly  you 
drag  the  flies  across  the  current,  reluctant  to  recover 
until  the  latest  possible  moment.  And  so,  when  your 
rod  is  foolishly  upright,  your  line  slack,  and  your 
flies  motionless,  there  rolls  slowly  up  and  over  the 
trout  of  trouts.  You  see  a  broad  side,  the  whirl  of  a 
fan-tail  that  looks  to  you  to  be  at  least*  six  inches 
across  —  and  the  current  slides  on,  silver-like,  smooth, 
indifferent  to  the  wild  leap  of  your  heart 

248 


THE  CATCHING  OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 

Like  a  crazy  man  you  shorten  your  line.  Six  sec- 
onds later  your  flies  fall  skillfully  just  upstream  from 
where  last  you  saw  that  wonderful  tail. 

But  six  seconds  may  be  a  long,  long  period  of  time. 
You  have  feared  and  hoped  and  speculated  and  real- 
ized ;  feared  that  the  leviathan  has  pricked  him- 
self and  so  will  not  rise  again ;  hoped  that  his  appear- 
ance merely  indicated  curiosity  which  he  will  desire 
further  to  satisfy ;  speculated  on  whether  your  skill 
can  drop  the  fly  exactly  on  that  spot,  as  it  must  be 
dropped ;  and  realized  that,  whatever  be  the  truth  as 
to  all  those  fears  and  hopes  and  speculations,  this  is 
irrevocably  your  last  chance. 

For  an  instant  you  allow  the  flies  to  drift  down- 
stream, to  be  floated  here  and  there  by  idle  little 
eddies,  to  be  sucked  down  and  spat  out  of  tiny  suc- 
tion-holes. Then  cautiously  you  draw  them  across 
the  surface  of  the  waters.  Thump  —  thump  —  thump 
—  your  heart  slows  up  with  disappointment.  Then 
mysteriously,  like  the  stirring  of  the  waters  by  some 
invisible  hand,  the  molten  silver  is  broken  in  its 
smoothness.  The  Royal  Coachman  quietly  disap- 
pears. With  all  the  brakes  shrieking  on  your  desire 
to  shut  your  eyes  and  heave  a  mighty  heave,  you 
depress  your  butt  and  strike. 

Then  in  the  twilight  the  battle.  No  leisure  is  here, 
only  quivering,  intense,  agonized  anxiety.  The  affair 
transcends  the  moment.  Purposes  and  necessities  of 
untold  ages  have  concentrated,  so  that  somehow  back 

249 


THE  FOREST 

of  your  consciousness  rest  hosts  of  disembodied  hopes, 
tendencies,  evolutionary  progressions,  all  breathless 
lest  you  prove  unequal  to  the  struggle  for  which  they 
have  been  so  long  preparing.  Responsibility,  vast, 
vague,  formless,  is  yours.  Only  tlie  fact  that  you  are 
wholly  occupied  with  the  exigence  of  the  moment 
prevents  your  understanding  of  what  it  is,  but  it 
hovers  dark  and  depressing  behind  your  possible 
failure.  You  must  win.  This  is  no  fish :  it  is  oppor- 
tunity itself;  and  once  gone  it  will  never  return.  The 
mysticism  of  lower  dusk  in  the  forest,  of  upper  after- 
glow on  the  hills,  of  the  chill  of  evening  waters  and 
winds,  of  the  glint  of  strange  phantoms  under  the 
darkness  of  cliffs,  of  the  whisperings  and  shoutings 
of  Things  you  are  too  busy  to  identify  out  in  tlie  gray 
of  North  Country  awe  —  all  these  menace  you  with 
indeterminate  dread.  Knee-deep,  waist-deep,  swift 
water,  slack  water,  downstream,  upstream,  with  red 
eyes  straimng  into  the  dimness,  with  every  muscle 
taut  and  every  nerve  quivering,  you  follow  the  rip- 
ping of  your  line.  You  have  consecrated  yourself 
to  the  uttermost.  The  minutes  stalk  by  you  gigantic. 
You  are  a  stable  pin-point  in  whirling  phantasms. 
And  you  are  very  little,  very  small,  very  inadequate 
among  these  Titans  of  circumstance. 

Thrice  he  breaks  water,  a  white  and  ghostly  ap- 
parition from  the  deep.  Your  heart  stops  with  your 
reel,  and  only  resumes  its  office  when  again  the  line 
sings  safely.    The  darkness  falls,  and  with  it,  like  the 

250 


THE  CATCHING  OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 

mysterious  strength  of  Sir  Gareth's  opponent,  falls 
the  power  of  your  adversary.  His  rushes  shorten. 
The  blown  world  of  your  uncertainty  shrinks  to  the 
normal.  From  the  haze  of  your  consciousness,  as 
through  a  fog,  loom  the  old  familiar  forest,  and 
the  hills,  and  the  River.  Slowly  you  creep  from  that 
strange  enchanted  land.  The  sullen  trout  yields.  In 
all  gentleness  you  float  him  within  reach  of  your 
net.  Quietly,  breathlessly  you  walk  ashore,  and  over 
the  beach,  and  yet  an  unnecessary  hundred  feet 
from  the  water  lest  he  retain  still  a  flop.  Then  you 
lay  him  upon  the  stones  and  lift  up  your  heart  in 
rejoicing. 

How  you  get  to  camp  you  never  clearly  know. 
Exultation  lifts  your  feet.  Wings,  wings,  O  ye  Red 
Gods,  wings  to  carry  the  body  whither  the  spirit  hath 
already  soared,  and  stooped,  and  circled  back  in  im- 
patience to  see  why  still  the  body  lingers !  Ordi- 
narily you  can  cross  the  riffles  above  the  Halfway 
Pool  only  with  caution  and  prayer  and  a  stout  staff 
craftily  employed.  This  night  you  can  —  and  do  — 
splash  across  hand-free,  as  recklessly  as  you  would 
wade  a  little  brook.  There  is  no  stumble  in  you,  for 
you  have  done  a  great  deed,  and  the  Red  Gods  are 
smiling. 

Through  the  trees  glows  a  light,  and  in  the  center 
of  that  light  are  leaping  flames,  and  in  the  circle  of 
that  light  stand,  rough-hewn  in  orange,  the  tent  and 
the  table  and  the  waiting  figures  of  your  companions. 

2Sl 


THE  FOREST 

You  stop  Siiort,  and  swallow  hard,  and  saunter  into 
camp  as  one  indifferent. 

Carelessly  you  toss  aside  your  creel,  —  into  the 
darkest  corner,  as  though  it  were  unimportant, — non- 
chalantly you  lean  your  rod  against  the  slant  of  your 
tent,  wearily  you  seat  yourself  and  begin  to  draw  off 
your  drenched  garments.  Billy  bends  toward  the  fire. 
Dick  gets  you  your  dry  clothes.  Nobody  says  any- 
thing, for  everybody  is  hungry.  No  one  asks  you  any 
questions,  for  on  the  River  you  get  in  almost  any 
time  of  night. 

Finally,  as  you  are  hanging  your  wet  things  near 
the  fire,  you  inquire  casually  over  your  shoulder,  — 

"  Dick,  have  any  luck  *?  " 

Dick  tells  you.  You  listen  with  apparent  interest. 
He  has  caught  a  three-pounder.  He  describes  the 
spot  and  the  method  and  the  struggle.  He  is  very 
much  pleased.    You  pity  him. 

The  three  of  you  eat  supper,  lots  of  supper.  Billy 
arises  first,  filling  his  pipe.  He  hangs  water  over  the 
fire  for  the  dish-washing.  You  and  Dick  sit  hunched 
on  a  log,  blissfully  happy  in  the  moments  of  diges- 
tion, ruminative,  watching  the  blaze.  The  tobacco 
smoke  eddies  and  sucks  upward  to  join  the  wood 
smoke.  Billy  moves  here  and  there  in  the  fulfillment 
of  his  simple  tasks,  casting  his  shadow  wavering  and 
gigantic  against  the  fire-lit  trees.  By  and  by  he  has 
finished.  He  gathers  up  the  straps  of  Dick's  creel, 
and  turns  to  the  shadow  for  your  own.    He  is  going 

252 


THE  CATCHING  OF  A  CERTAIN  FISH 

to  clean  the  fish.  It  is  the  moment  you  have  watched 
for.    You  shroud  yourself  in  profound  indifference. 

"  Sacre  ! "  shrieks  Billy. 

You  do  not  even  turn  your  head. 

"Jumping  giraffes!  why,  it 's  a  whale!"  cries  Dick. 

You  roll  a  blase  eye  in  their  direction,  as  though 
such  puerile  enthusiasm  wearies  you. 

"  Yes,  it 's  quite  a  little  fish,"  you  concede. 

They  swarm  down  upon  you,  demanding  particu- 
lars. These  you  accord  laconically,  a  word  at  a  time, 
in  answer  to  direct  question,  between  puffs  of  smoke. 

"  At  the  Narrows.  Royal  Coachman.  Just  before 
I  came  in.  Pretty  fair  fight.  Just  at  the  edge  of  the 
eddy."     And  so  on.   But  your  soul  glories. 

The  tape-line  is  brought  out.  Twenty-nine  inches 
it  records.  Holy  smoke,  what  a  fish !  Your  air  im- 
plies that  you  will  probably  catch  three  more  just  like 
him  on  the  morrow.  Dick  and  Billy  make  tracings 
of  him  on  the  birch  bark.  You  retain  your  lofty 
calm :  but  inside  you  are  little  quivers  of  rapture. 
And  when  you  awake,  late  in  the  night,  you  are  con- 
scious, first  of  all,  that  you  are  happy,  happy,  happy, 
all  through ;  and  only  when  the  drowse  drains  away 
do  you  remember  why. 


253 


MAN  WHO  WALKS  BY  MOONLIGHT 


XVIII 
MAN   WHO  WALKS  BY  MOONLIGHT 

WE  had  been  joined  on  the  River  by  friends. 
"  Doug,"  who  never  fished  more  than  forty 
rods  from  camp,  and  was  always  inventing  water- 
gauges,  patent  indicators,  and  other  things,  and  who 
wore  in  his  soft  slouch  hat  so  many  brilliant  trout 
flies  that  he  irresistibly  reminded  you  of  flower- 
decked  Ophelia ;  '*Dinnis,"  who  was  large  and  good- 
natured  and  bubbling  and  popular ;  Johnny,  whose 
wide  eyes  looked  for  the  first  time  on  the  woods-life, 
and  whose  awe-struck  soul  concealed  itself  behind 
assumptions;  "Jim,"  six  feet  tall  and  three  feet 
broad,  with  whom  the  season  before  I  had  penetrated 
to  Hudson  Bay ;  and  finally  "  Doc,"  tall,  granite,  ex- 
perienced, the  best  fisherman  that  ever  hit  the  River. 
With  these  were  Indians.  Buckshot,  a  little  Indian 
with  a  good  knowledge  of  English ;  Johnnie  Chal- 
lan,  a  half-breed  Indian,  ugly,  furtive,  an  efficient 
man  about  camp ;  and  Tawabinisay  himself  This 
was  an  honor  due  to  the  presence  of  Doc.  Tawa- 
binisay approved  of  Doc.  That  was  all  there  was  to 
say  about  it. 

After   a  few   days,   inevitably  the   question   of 
257 


THE  FOREST 

Kawagama  came  up.  Billy,  Johnnie  Challan,  and 
Buckshot  squatted  in  a  semicircle,  and  drew  dia- 
grams in  the  soft  dirt  with  a  stick.  Tawabinisay  sat 
on  a  log  and  overlooked  the  proceedings.  Finally  he 
spoke. 

"  Tawabinisay "  (they  always  gave  him  his  full 
title ;  we  called  him  Tawab)  "  tell  me  lake  you  find 
he  no  Kawagama,"  translated  Buckshot.  "  He  called 
Black  Beaver  Lake." 

"  Ask  him  if  he  '11  take  us  to  Kawagama,"  I  re- 
quested. 

Tawabinisay  looked  very  doubtful. 

"  Come  on,  Tawab,"  urged  Doc,  nodding  at  him 
vigorously.  "  Don't  be  a  clam.  We  won't  take  any- 
body else  up  there." 

The  Indian  probably  did  not  comprehend  the 
words,  but  he  liked  Doc. 

"A'-right,"  he  pronounced  laboriously. 

Buckshot  explained  to  us  his  plans. 

"  Tawabinisay  tell  me,"  said  he,  "  he  don'  been  to 
Kawagama  seven  year.  To-morrow  he  go  blaze  trail. 
Nex'  day  we  go." 

"  How  would  it  be  if  one  or  two  of  us  went  with 
him  to-morrow  to  see  how  he  does  it  ?  "  asked  Jim. 

Buckshot  looked  at  us  strangely. 

"  /  don't  want  to  follow  him,"  he  replied  with  a 
significant  simplicity.    "  He  run  like  a  deer." 

"Buckshot,"  said  I,  pursuing  the  inevitable  lin- 
guistics, "  what  does  Kawagama  mean  ?  " 

258 


MAN  WHO  WALKS  BY  MOONLIGHT 

Buckshot  thought  for  quite  two  minutes.  Then 
he  drew  a  semicircle. 

"  W'at  you  call  dat  ^  "  he  asked. 

"Crescent,  like  moon?  half-circle?  horseshoe? 
bow  ?  "  we  proposed. 

Buckshot  shook  his  head  at  each  suggestion.  He 
made  a  wriggling  mark,  then  a  wide  sweep,  then  a 
loop. 

"  All  dose,"  said  he,  "  w'at  you  call  him  ?  " 

"  Curve  !  "  we  cried. 
~7"Ah  hah,"  assented  Buckshot,  satisfied. 

"  Buckshot,"  we  went  on,  "  what  does  Tawabini- 
say  mean  ?  " 

"  Man  -  who  -  travels  -  by  -  moonlight,"  he  replied, 
promptly. 

The  following  morning  Tawabinisay  departed, 
carrying  a  lunch  and  a  hand-axe.  At  four  o'clock  he 
was  back,  sitting  on  a  log  and  smoking  a  pipe.  In 
the  mean  time  we  had  made  up  our  party. 

Tawabinisay  himself  had  decided  that  the  two 
half-breeds  must  stay  at  home.  He  wished  to  share 
his  secret  only  with  his  own  tribesmen.  The  fiat 
grieved  Billy,  for  behold  he  had  already  put  in  much 
time  on  this  very  search,  and  naturally  desired  to  be 
in  at  the  finish.  Dick,  too,  wanted  to  go,  but  him  we 
decided  too  young  and  light  for  a  fast  march.  Dinnis 
had  to  leave  the  River  in  a  day  or  so ;  Johnnie  was 
a  little  doubtful  as  to  the  tramp,  although  he  con- 
cealed his  doubt  —  at  least  to  his  own  satisfaction  — 

259 


THE  FOREST 

under  a  variety  of  excuses.   Jim  and  Doc  would  go, 
of  course.   There  remained  Doug. 

We  found  diat  individual  erecting  a  rack  of  many- 
projecting  arms  —  like  a  Greek  warrior's  trophy — at 
the  precise  spot  where  the  first  rays  of  the  morning 
sun  would  strike  it.  On  the  projecting  arms  he  pur- 
posed hanging  his  wet  clothes. 

"  Doug,"  said  we,  "  do  you  want  to  go  to  Kawa- 
gama  to-morrow  ?  " 

Doug  turned  on  us  a  sardonic  eye.  He  made  no 
direct  answer,  but  told  the  following  story  :  — 

"Once  upon  a  time  Judge  Carter  was  riding 
through  a  rural  district  in  Virginia.  He  stopped  at 
a  negro's  cabin  to  get  his  direction. 

" '  Uncle,*  said  he,  '  can  you  direct  me  to  Colonel 
Thompson's  ? ' 

"'  Yes  sah,'  replied  the  negro ;  '  yo'  goes  down  this 
yah  road  *bout  two  mile  till  yo'  comes  to  an  oV  ailm 
tree,  and  then  yo'  tu'ns  sha'p  to  th'  right  down  a  lane 
fo'  'bout  a  qua'ter  of  a  mile.  Thah  you  sees  a  big 
white  house.  Yo'  wants  to  go  through  th'  ya'd,  to  a 
paf  that  takes  you  a  spell  to  a  gate.  Yo'  follows  that 
road  to  th'  lef'  till  yo'  comes  to  three  roads  goin'  up 
a  hill ;  and,  jedge,  it  don  matt  ah  which  one  of  them 
thah  roads  yo*  take^yo  gets  lost  surer  'n  hell  anyway  I ' " 

Then  Doug  turned  placidly  back  to  the  construc- 
tion of  his  trophy. 

We  interpreted  this  as  an  answer,  and  made  up  an 
outfit  for  five. 

260 


Tawabinisay  has  a  delightful  grin 


MAN  WHO  WALKS  BY  MOONLIGHT 

The  following  morning  at  six  o'clock  we  were 
under  way.  Johnnie  Challan  ferried  us  across  the  river 
in  two  installments.  We  waved  our  hands  and 
plunged  through  the  brush  screen. 

Thenceforth  it  was  walk  half  an  hour,  rest  five 
minutes,  with  almost  the  regularity  of  clockwork. 
We  timed  the  Indians  secretly,  and  found  they  varied 
by  hardly  a  minute  from  absolute  fidelity  to  this 
schedule.  We  had  at  first,  of  course,  to  gain  the 
higher  level  of  the  hills,  but  Tawabinisay  had  the  day 
before  picked  out  a  route  that  mounted  as  easily  as 
the  country  would  allow,  and  through  a  hardwood 
forest  free  of  underbrush.  Briefly  indicated,  our  way 
led  first  through  the  big  trees  and  up  the  hills,  then 
behind  a  great  cliff  knob  into  a  creek  valley,  through 
a  quarter-mile  of  bottom-land  thicket,  then  by  an 
open  strip  to  the  first  little  lake.  This  we  ferried  by 
means  of  the  bark  canoe  carried  on  the  shoulders  of 
Tawabinisay. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  we  thus  passed  four 
lakes.  Throughout  the  entire  distance  to  Kawagama 
were  the  fresh  axe-blazes  the  Indian  had  made  the 
day  before.  These  were  neither  so  frequent  nor  as 
plainly  cut  as  a  white  man's  trail,  but  each  represented 
a  pause  long  enough  for  the  clip  of  an  axe.  In  ad- 
dition the  trail  had  been  made  passable  for  a  canoe. 
That  meant  the  cutting  out  of  overhanging  branches 
wherever  they  might  catch  the  bow  of  the  craft.  In 
the  thicket  a  little  road  had  been  cleared,  and  the 

261 


THE  FOREST 

brush  had  been  piled  on  either  side.  To  an  unaccus- 
tomed eye  it  seemed  the  work  of  two  days  at  least. 
Yet  Tawabinisay  had  picked  out  his  route,  cleared 
and  marked  it  thus,  skirted  the  shores  of  the  lakes  we 
were  able  to  traverse  in  the  canoe,  and  had  returned 
to  the  River  in  less  time  than  we  consumed  in  merely 
reaching  the  Lake  itself!  Truly,  as  Buckshot  said, 
he  must  have  "  run  like  a  deer." 

Tawabinisay  has  a  delightful  grin  which  he  dis- 
plays when  pleased  or  good-humored  or  puzzled  or 
interested  or  comprehending,  just  as  a  dog  sneezes 
and  wrinkles  up  his  nose  in  like  case.  He  is  essentially 
kind-hearted.  If  he  likes  you  and  approves  of  you, 
he  tries  to  teach  you,  to  help  you,  to  show  you  things. 
But  he  never  offers  to  do  any  part  of  your  work,  and 
on  the  march  he  never  looks  back  to  see  if  you  are 
keeping  up.  You  can  shout  at  him  until  you  are 
black  in  the  face,  but  never  will  he  pause  until  rest 
time.  Then  he  squats  on  his  heels,  lights  his  pipe,  and 
grins. 

Buckshot  adored  him.  This  opportunity  of  travel- 
ing with  him  was  an  epoch.  He  drank  in  eagerly 
the  brief  remarks  of  his  "  old  man,"  and  detailed  them 
to  us  with  solemnity,  prefaced  always  by  his  "  Tawa- 
binisay tell  me."  Buckshot  is  of  the  better  class  of 
Indian  himself,  but  occasionally  he  is  puzzled  by  the 
woods-noises.  Tawabinisay  never.  As  we  cooked 
lunch,  we  heard  the  sound  of  steady  footsteps  in  the 
forest  — fat ;  then  a  pause  ;  then  pat ;  just  like  a 

262 


MAN  WHO  WALKS  BY  MOONLIGHT 

deer  browsing.  To  make  sure  I  inquired  of  Buck- 
shot. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

Buckshot  listened  a  moment. 

"  Deer,"  said  he,  decisively ;  then,  not  because  he 
doubted  his  own  judgment,  but  from  habitual  de- 
ference, he  turned  to  where  Tawabinisay  was  frying 
things. 

"  Qwaw  "?  "  he  inquired. 

Tawabinisay  never  even  looked  up. 

"  Adji-domo  "  (squirrel),  said  he. 

We  looked  at  each  other  incredulously.  It  sounded 
like  a  deer.  It  did  not  sound  in  the  least  like  a  squir- 
rel. An  experienced  Indian  had  pronounced  it  a  deer. 
Nevertheless  it  was  a  squirrel. 

We  approached  Kawagama  by  way  of  a  gradual 
slope  clothed  with  a  beautiful  beech  and  maple  for- 
est whose  trees  were  the  tallest  of  those  species  I  have 
ever  seen.  Ten  minutes  brought  us  to  the  shore. 
There  was  no  abrupt  bursting  in  on  Kawagama 
through  screens  of  leaves ;  we  entered  leisurely  to 
her  presence  by  way  of  an  antechamber  whose  spa- 
ciousness permitted  no  vulgar  surprises.  After  a  time 
we  launched  the  canoe  from  a  natural  dock  afforded 
by  a  cedar  root,  and  so  stood  ready  to  cross  to  our 
permanent  camp.  But  first  we  drew  our  knives  and 
erased  from  a  giant  birch  the  half-grown-over  name 
of  the  banker  Clement. 

There  seems  to  me  little  use  in  telling  you  that 
263 


THE  FOREST 

Kawagama  is  about  four  miles  long  by  a  mile  wide, 
is  shaped  like  a  crescent,  and  lies  in  a  valley  sur- 
rounded by  high  hills ;  nor  that  its  water  is  so  trans- 
parent that  the  bottom  is  visible  until  it  fades  into 
the  sheer  blackness  of  depth ;  nor  that  it  is  alive  with 
trout ;  nor  that  its  silence  is  the  silence  of  a  vast  soli- 
tude, so  that  always,  even  at  daybreak  or  at  high 
midday,  it  seems  to  be  late  afternoon.  That  would 
convey  little  to  you.  I  will  inform  you  quite  simply 
that  Kawagama  is  a  very  beautiful  specimen  of  the 
wilderness  lake  ;  that  it  is  as  the  Lord  made  it ;  and 
that  we  had  a  good  time. 

Did  you  ever  fish  with  the  fly  from  a  birch-bark 
canoe  on  absolutely  still  water*?  You  do  not  seem 
to  move.  But  far  below  you,  gliding,  silent,  ghost- 
like, the  bottom  slips  beneath.  Like  a  weather-vane  in 
an  imperceptible  current  of  air  your  bow  turns  to  right 
or  left  in  apparent  obedience  to  the  mere  will  of  your 
companion.  And  the  flies  drop  softly  like  down. 
Then  the  silence  becomes  sacred.  You  whisper, — 
although  there  is  no  reason  for  your  whispering ;  you 
move  cautiously  lest  your  reel  scrape  the  gunwale. 
An  inadvertent  click  of  the  paddle  is  a  profanation. 
The  only  creatures  in  all  God's  world  possessing  the 
right  to  utter  aloud  a  single  syllable  are  the  loon,  far 
away,  and  the  winter  wren,  near  at  hand.  Even  the 
trout  fight  grimly,  without  noise,  their  white  bodies 
flashing  far  down  in  the  dimness. 

Hour  after  hour  we  stole  here  and  there  like  con- 
264 


MAN  WHO  WALKS  BY  MOONLIGHT 

spirators.  Where  showed  the  circles  of  a  fish's  rise, 
thither  crept  we  to  drop  a  fly  on  their  center  as  in 
the  bulPs-eye  of  a  target.  The  trout  seemed  to  hnger 
near  their  latest  capture,  so  often  we  would  catch 
one  exactly  where  we  had  seen  him  break  water 
some  little  time  before.  In  this  was  the  charm  of  the 
still  hunt.  Shoal  water,  deep  water,  it  seemed  all  the 
same  to  our  fortunes.  The  lake  was  full  of  fish,  and 
beautiful  fish  they  were,  with  deep  glowing  bronze 
bellies,  and  all  of  from  a  pound  to  a  pound  and  a 
half  in  weight.  The  lake  had  not  been  fished.  Prob- 
ably somewhere  in  those  black  depths  over  one  of 
the  bubbling  spring-holes  that  must  feed  so  cold  and 
clear  a  body  of  water,  are  big  fellows  lying,  and  prob- 
ably the  crafi:y  minnow  or  spoon  might  lure  them  out. 
But  we  were  satisfied  with  our  game. 

At  other  times  we  paddled  here  and  there  in  ex- 
ploration of  coves,  inlets,  and  a  tiny  little  brook  that 
flowed  westward  from  a  reed  marsh  to  join  another 
river  running  parallel  to  our  own. 

The  Indians  had  erected  a  huge  lean-to  of  birch 
bark,  from  the  ribs  of  which  hung  clothes  and  the 
little  bags  of  food.  The  cooking-fire  was  made  in 
front  of  it  between  two  giant  birch-trees.  At  evening 
the  light  and  heat  reflected  strongly  beneath  the 
shelter,  leaving  the  forest  in  impenetrable  darkness. 
To  the  very  edge  of  mystery  crowded  the  strange 
woods-noises,  the  eerie  influences  of  the  night,  like 
wolves  afraid  of  the  blaze.    We  felt  them  hovering, 

36$ 


THE  FOREST 

vague,  huge,  dreadful,  just  outside  the  circle  of  safety 
our  fire  had  traced  about  us.  The  cheerful  flames 
were  dancing  familiars  who  cherished  for  us  the 
home  feeling  in  the  middle  of  a  wilderness. 

Two  days  we  lingered,  then  took  the  back  track. 
A  little  after  noon  we  arrived  at  the  camp,  empty 
save  for  Johnnie  Challan.  Towards  dark  the  fisher- 
men straggled  in.  Time  had  been  paid  them  in 
familiar  coinage.  They  had  demanded  only  accus- 
tomed toll  of  the  days,  but  we  had  returned  laden 
with  strange  and  glittering  memories. 


266 


APOLOGIA 


XIX 
APOLOGIA 

THE  time  at  last  arrived  for  departure.  Deep 
laden  were  the  canoes ;  heavy  laden  were  we. 
The  Indians  shot  away  down  the  current.  We  fol- 
lowed for  the  last  time  the  dim  blazed  trail,  forded 
for  the  last  time  the  shallows  of  the  River.  At  the 
Burned  Rock  Pool  we  caught  our  lunch  fish  from 
the  ranks  of  leviathans.  Then  the  trodden  way  of 
the  Fur  Trail,  worn  into  a  groove  so  deep  and  a  sur- 
face so  smooth  that  vegetation  has  left  at  as  bare  as 
ever,  though  the  Post  has  been  abandoned  these 
many  years.  At  last  the  scrub  spruce,  and  the  sandy 
soil,  and  the  blue  restless  waters  of  the  Great  Lake. 
With  the  appearance  of  the  fish-tug  early  the  follow- 
ing day,  the  summer  ended. 

How  often  have  I  ruminated  in  the  long  marches 
the  problem  of  the  Forest.  Subtle  she  is,  and  mys- 
terious, and  gifted  with  a  charm  that  lures.  Vast  she 
is,  and  dreadful,  so  that  man  bows  before  her  fiercer 
moods,  a  little  thing.  Gentle  she  is,  and  kindly,  so 
that  she  denies  nothing,  whether  of  the  material  or 
spiritual,  to  those  of  her  chosen  who  will  seek.  Au- 
gust she  is,  and  yet  of  a  homely  sprightly  gentleness. 

269 


THE  FOREST 

Variable  she  is  in  her  many  moods.  Night,  day,  sun, 
cloud,  rain,  snow,  wind,  lend  to  her  their  best  of 
warmth  and  cold,  of  comfort  and  awe,  of  peace  and 
of  many  shoutings,  and  she  accepts  them,  but  yet 
remains  greater  and  more  enduring  than  they.  In 
her  is  all  the  sweetness  of  little  things.  Murmurs  of 
water  and  of  breeze,  faint  odors,  wandering  streams 
of  tepid  air,  stray  bird-songs  in  fragment  as  when  a 
door  is  opened  and  closed,  the  softness  of  moss,  the 
coolness  of  shade,  the  glimpse  of  occult  affairs  in  the 
woods-life,  accompany  her  as  Titania  her  court.  How 
to  express  these  things  ?  how  to  fix  on  paper  in  a 
record,  as  one  would  describe  the  Capitol  at  Wash- 
ington, what  the  Forest  is?  That  is  what  I  have 
asked  myself  often,  and  that  is  what  I  have  never 
yet  found  out. 

This  is  the  wisdom  reflection  has  taught.  One 
cannot  imprison  the  ocean  in  a  vial  of  sea-water : 
one  cannot  imprison  the  Forest  inside  the  covers  of 
a  book. 

There  remains  the  second  best.  I  have  thought 
that  perhaps  if  I  were  to  attempt  a  series  of  detached 
impressions,  without  relation,  without  sequence ;  if 
I  were  to  suggest  a  little  here  the  beauty  of  a  moon- 
beam, there  the  humor  of  a  rainstorm,  at  the  last 
you  might,  by  dint  of  imagination  and  sympathy, 
get  some  slight  feeling  of  what  the  great  woods  are. 
It  is  the  method  of  the  painter.  Perhaps  it  may 
suffice. 

270 


APOLOGIA 

For  this  reason  let  no  old  camper  look  upon  this 
volume  as  a  treatise  on  woodcraft.  Woodcraft  there 
is  in  it,  just  as  there  is  woodcraft  in  the  Forest  itself, 
but  much  of  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  does  not 
appear.  The  painter  would  not  depict  every  twig,  as 
would  the  naturalist. 

Equally  it  cannot  be  considered  a  book  of  travel 
nor  of  description.  The  story  is  not  consecutive ;  the 
adventures  not  exciting;  the  landscape  not  defined. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  permitted  to  call  it  a  book  of 
suggestion.  Often  on  the  street  we  have  had  opened 
to  us  by  the  merest  sketches  of  incident  limitless 
vistas  of  memory.  A  momentary  pose  of  the  head 
of  a  passer-by,  a  chance  word,  the  breath  of  a  faint 
perfume,  —  these  bring  back  to  us  the  entirety  of 
forgotten  scenes.  Some  of  these  essays  may  perform 
a  like  office  for  you.  I  cannot  hope  to  give  you  the 
Forest.  But  perhaps  a  word  or  a  sentence,  an  incident, 
an  impression,  may  quicken  your  imagination,  so  that 
through  no  conscious  direction  of  my  own  the  won- 
der of  the  Forest  may  fill  you,  as  the  mere  sight  of  a 
conch-shell  will  sometimes  fill  you  with  the  wonder 
of  the  sea. 

THE    END 


271 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  OUTFIT 


SUGGESTIONS   FOR   OUTFIT 

In  reply  to  inquiries  as  to  necessary  outfit  for  camping 
and  woods-traveling,  the  author  furnishes  the  following 
lists :  — 

I.    Provisions  per  man^  one  week, 

7  lbs.  flour ;  5  lbs.  pork ;  1-5  lb.  tea ;  2  lbs.  beans ;  I  1-2 
lbs.  sugar ;  i  1-2  lbs.  rice ;  i  1-2  lbs.  prunes  and  raisins ; 
I -10  lb.  lard;  I  lb.  oatmeal;  baking-powder;  matches; 
soap;  pepper;  salt;  1-3  lb.  tobacco  —  (weight,  a  little  over 
20  lbs.).  This  will  last  much  longer  if  you  get  game  and 
fish. 

2.    Pack  one^  or  absolute  necessities  for  hard  trip. 

Wear  hat ;  suit  woolen  underwear ;  shirt ;  trousers ;  socks  5 
silk  handkerchief;  cotton  handkerchief;  moccasins. 

Carry  sweater  (3  lbs.);  extra  drawers  (i  1-2  lbs.); 
2  extra  pairs  socks ;  gloves  (buckskin)  ;  towel ;  2  extra 
pairs  moccasins  ;  surgeons'  plaster ;  laxative  ;  pistol  and  car- 
tridges ;  fishing-tackle  ;  blanket  (7  1-2  lbs.);  rubber  blanket 
(i  lb.) ;  tent  (8  lbs.) ;  small  axe  (2  1-2  lbs.) ;  knife  ;  mos- 
quito -  dope ;  compass  ;  match-box  ;  tooth-brush ;  comb ; 
small  whetstone  —  (weight,  about  25  lbs.);  2  tin  or  alumi- 
num pails  ;  I  frying-pan  ;  i  cup  ;  I  knife,  fork,  and  spoon 
—  (weight,  4  lbs.  if  of  aluminum). 

Whole  pack  under  50  lbs.  In  case  of  two  or  more  peo- 
ple, each  pack  would  be  lighter,  as  tent,  tinware,  etc.,  would 
do  for  both. 

275 


THE  FOREST 

3.  Pack  two — for  luxuries  and  easy  trips  —  extra  to  pack  one. 
More  fishing-tackle  ;  camera ;  i  more  pair  socks  ;  i  more 
Suit  underclothes  ;  extra  sweater  j  wading-shoes  of  canvas ; 
large  axe ;  mosquito  net ;  mending  materials ;  kettle ; 
candles ;  more  cooking-utensils ;  extra  shirt ;  whiskey. 


276 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


4Jan'63DWW 


Ri;:.C'D  •  n 


H^    2  1963 


JIIW6  '63  E 


KEC'D  LD 


JUN6    1963 


LD  21A-50w?-12.'60 
(B6221sl0)476B 


General  Library 
University  of  California 


Y,C  95291 


y 


.# 


.,  'n_>  Cp 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


